Companionship
by Dovahlok
Summary: Siri returns to Skyrim to say goodbye to the last of her family.  Now alone in the world, she seeks out the Companions...
1. Homeward

**A/N: **So...I'm sure you all know the drill. I don't own it, not any of it. Wheeee! Now we can get on to the important stuff...

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><p><em>This is what I get,<em> she thought. _This is what I get for trying to come home…trying to visit my da on his deathbed._

It was a strange sequence of events that had led to Siri, a Nord and native of Skyrim, to the dank cave where she was presently crouching, her breath shallow and silent in an attempt to sneak by a bear. She and her companion, a strapping kinsman named Ralof, had just fought their way through Helgen keep to escape the fiery wrath of—by the Divines, could it really be?—a dragon! The bear twitched and let out a loud growl, causing Siri—armored in nothing more than a Stormcloak tunic and fur boots—to seize up in fear.

The letter had come by courier to the Imperial City two weeks prior: a frantic missive from her uncle, Honmund, urging her to come home as quickly as possible, and relating the story of her father's swift decline into illness. The shakes, the night terrors, the weakness—he was very ill, Honmund wrote, and might be called to Sovngarde soon. The night she received the letter, Siri packed her bag, left a hefty coin purse for the innkeeper, and started for Skyrim.

The farther north she traveled on her journey, the more she wondered why she had left home in the first place. Cyrodiil was a nice place, sure—cosmopolitan, accepting. Why, in Skyrim, she would never have had Khajiit friends, or Argonian friends. In Cyrodiil a Nord and a Khajiit could pass in a city without a second thought. But as she left the warmer climate of the Imperial City and journeyed north, toward Bruma, the kiss of the cold and the snow on the ground made her long for Skyrim's frigid countryside. She had left to find independence—a job in the Imperial City, working a shop, perhaps, or maybe as a librarian at the Arcane University, once she mastered her magic. But the past year and a half had been spent traveling Cyrodiil in search of work—staying at inns, doing odd jobs, never scraping together much money or making a name for herself anywhere.

It was good, she thought, that her uncle's letter had come when it did. She had run up her tab at the Tiber Septim Hotel, and after paying the innkeeper she was left with a scant fifty-two Septims. She had begun to despair of ever joining the Mages' Guild, for she never had time to work with magic—the countryside of Cyrodiil was crawling with Thalmor agents, who, while certainly not friendly to the non-Mer of Tamriel, had done a very good job of keeping the roadways safe. Not once in her journeys across the province had Siri found the need to draw a weapon.

Ultimately a good thing, as she had needed to sell her cutlass to buy food a couple months back.

When she had reached the border of Skyrim—a decent trip from the Imperial City, one that had taken the better part of a week, thanks to bad weather rolling off the mountains on the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border—she was relieved. Crossing back into her homeland felt right, she thought, feeling her Nord's blood stir with pride at the rough-hewn, bitterly-cold landscape. _This is where I belong_, she thought.

It had not been a day before it all went wrong.

Siri had set up camp near Fort Neugrad, in Falkreath Hold. Although she had heard of the Stormcloak rebellion, she knew that the Imperials had the Stormcloaks on the run, and felt that there would be no danger in camping in the open for one night until she could reach her da's farm just outside of Falkreath. Unrolling her bedroll beneath a bare tree, she fell asleep, the stars twinkling down at her peacefully.

Siri was jostled awake not two hours later and looked around, groggy and confused, at the bright lights surrounding her. Suddenly she felt a rough hand on her upper arm and managed to focus on the person it belonged to.

He was wearing Imperial armor, and he and his companions had odd expressions on their faces.

"Can I help you?" asked Siri, thoroughly confused.

"A pretty little one," jeered one of the soldiers behind her. "Where are your Stormcloak buddies, cutie?"

"I—what?" she asked, a note of panic creeping into her voice. The men guffawed at her, and the one who had her arm dragged her roughly toward the fort.

Around the front of the fort was a caged wagon, flanked by Imperial soldiers, with two prisoners already inside. Terrified, Siri attempted to explain to her captors that there had been some misunderstanding.

"Wait," she cried, "wait! I'm not a Stormcloak—I came back to Skyrim because my father is ill! Please! I have to go home to see him!"

Her pleas fell on deaf ears as one Imperial bound her hands. Desperately, Siri pulled away and attempted to flee—if she could get far enough into the darkness, she could lose them: Falkreath was her home, and she had roamed this countryside with her da and older brother in her youth. She knew the entire hold quite well. She headed for the forest, which couldn't have been more than two hundred feet away…

Suddenly there was a crushing blow on the back of her head, and everything went dark.


	2. Helgen

Siri jerked awake.

_Where…where am I?_

She sat up and looked down at her body. Her clothes were gone, replaced by a roughspun canvas tunic and canvas footwraps, and her satchel—which she usually kept tied to her belt—was gone. Panicked, she looked about, finding herself in a holding cell—Divines knew where—surrounded by cold stone walls and a rusted iron door. Her hands were still bound, and she had to hold onto her cell door to stand upright. Down the hall she could hear sobbing and the occasional crack of a whip.

_By Talos…what have I gotten myself into?_

Four days passed in the holding cell. Occasionally an Imperial soldier would bring Siri a bowl of watery stew or half a loaf of bread, but no one would tell her what she was being held for or what was to happen to her. It wasn't until the fifth day, when she was jerked awake in the early morning and loaded onto a cart bound for…_somewhere_…that she even saw daylight. However, shortly after being loaded into the cart, she received another hefty blow to the back of her head for speaking to a guard, and she slumped forward, unconscious.

Akatosh only knew how long it had been before she regained consciousness, but she woke once more in a passenger cart, hands bound, and found herself in the company of three others—another man in the same tattered tunic she wore, a man wearing the blue armor of the Stormcloaks, and a man wearing finely made noblemen's garments, whose mouth was stuffed and bound with canvas.

The cart was rattling down a road through the wilderness when the man sitting across from her, the one in the Stormcloak uniform, spoke.

"Hey, you! Finally awake, eh?" he paused for a second, but Siri said nothing. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there?" Siri shook her head.

"I had crossed the border already…I came from Cyrodiil; I was trying to return home to Falkreath," she replied quietly. "I wasn't caught in an ambush—I was torn from sleep and spirited away for no reason!" The Nord Stormcloak chuckled.

"Typical Empire," he said, before the thief broke in.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he growled. "If they hadn't been searching for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now…"

"We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief," replied the Nord once more, before lapsing into silence.

Siri looked around. She recognized these woods. As she looked wistfully up at the trees, the thief's voice broke the silence.

"What's wrong with him, then?" he asked, jerking his head toward the gagged man.

"Watch your tongue!" spat the Stormcloak. "You are speaking of Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King of Skyrim!"

"Wait, Ulfric Stormcloak? Jarl of Windhelm? Oh Gods—where are they taking us?" cried the thief, terror seizing his heart.

"Be quiet back there!" yelled the Imperial driving the cart.

"Helgen," whispered Siri, her voice barely audible above the sound of wheels on stone.

No sooner had she spoken then the tower of the keep rose above the treeline. It was not long afterward that the cart rolled through the gates, which were sealed behind the caravan, and pulled to a stop.

As the cart stopped, so did Siri's heart.

_An executioner…so I am to become a casualty of a rebellion I played no part in._

The prisoners rose solemnly, descending from the cart one by one as another Nord, an Imperial, checked them off a list. Siri learned the name of the Stormcloak from her cart as the Imperial read off his name—"Ralof, of Riverwood."

Suddenly there was a commotion, and the thief pushed through the line of people. "You won't kill me today," he cried, running as quickly as his bound hands would let him in an attempt to reach the gate.

"Archers!" yelled the Imperial captain, a small woman clad from head to toe in Imperial heavy armor. As the thief was felled by the volley of arrows and lay still, bleeding out on the road, she turned back, eyes flashing, looking at the rest of the prisoners. "Anyone else want to make a run for it?"

"You there," said the Imperials' listkeeper. "You're not on the list. Who are you?" He gestured for Siri to step forward.

"I am Siri of Falkreath," she said, standing with her head held high, looking defiantly into the eyes of the Imperial captain. "I crossed the border into Skyrim this week to visit my father upon his deathbed."

The Nord looked sadly at his kinsman. She was beautiful—her long, auburn hair was held partway back with a tie; her face was slender, her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes large and blue. He believed her story—she was not wearing Stormcloak armor, nor did she even look capable of wielding a weapon, she was so skinny. He turned to look at the captain.

"Captain, what do we do? She's not on the list," he said.

"List be damned, she goes to the block with the rest of them," growled the Redguard, staring into Siri's eyes. Siri felt a shiver of hatred run down her spine as she glared back at the captain who had condemned her to death—no trial, no regard for her story. She was just another head for the Empire to mount on a pike in Cyrodiil.

"I—I'm sorry," murmured the Nord. "At least you'll die here, in Skyrim."

As Siri stood in the lineup listening to the priestess of Arkay prattle on about death and Sovngarde, an otherworldly sound echoed across the sky.

"What was that?" asked General Tullius, the Imperial commander in Skyrim, casting his eyes about the town.

"For the love of Talos!" cried a red-headed Stormcloak, "I'm getting sick of this waiting. Let's just get this over with." He stormed up to the block and placed his head on the stone, leering up at the executioner.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?"

A moment later, the sound of metal hitting stone rang through Helgen and the man's body tipped over slowly, his head falling heavily into the basket on the other side of the block.

"Next, the skinny Nord!" bellowed the Imperial captain. Siri glared at her. It seemed the woman harbored some kind of grudge against the Nord; nevertheless, Siri approached the block with her head held high.

The eerie sound echoed through the mountains again, and the earth trembled slightly. It was much closer this time.

As Siri laid her neck on the block, still damp with the blood of its previous victim, a deafening roar rent the sky and the ground quaked.

"What in Oblivion—" cried General Tullius. The Imperial captain called to the men posted atop the keep.

"Sentries, what do you see?"

But her question was answered a moment later when a hulking black beast soared over the mountaintop and crashed down atop one of the towers. A dragon!

_STRUN…BAH…QO!_

Siri felt the sounds resonate inside her body—almost inside her very _soul_—as she looked, terrified, at the monstrosity atop the tower. Seconds later, dark clouds began to form and lightning tore across the sky, striking some of her unlucky companions. Some more of those sounds—it sounded like the dragon was _speaking_—and suddenly meteors began to rain from the heavens.

Siri rolled off the chopping block and stood, watching as the Imperials and Stormcloaks alike fled for cover.

YOL…TOOR…SHUL!

Flames erupted from the dragon's mouth. Siri heard the screams of men set alight and felt the dragon's words resonate once more within her being. She scrambled into one of the stone towers and found herself in the company of a few Stormcloak soldiers, including Ralof, from her wagon, and the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Jarl Ulfric," said Ralof, "what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends," said Ulfric darkly, "don't burn down villages."

Ralof looked around and caught sight of Siri.

"Kinsman! Here, let me free your hands from those bonds." He cut away the ropes tying her hands, and Siri massaged the life back into her wrists.

"Did…did you hear? Did the dragon…speak?" she asked timidly.

"Oh aye," responded Ulfric, stepping forward and eyeing the Nord woman before him. "The Thu'um. Surely you recall the stories from your youth, kinsman?"

"Of course, of course," she responded, feeling foolish. Her father had told her countless stories of the dragons of old, the cruelty and oppression of humanity at the hands of the giant, flying nightmares. "But…did you…I mean, it felt as though it shook in my very being. Did…did any of you feel it?"

The Stormcloaks around her looked at each other, puzzled. It seemed that none of the Stormcloaks understood.


	3. Escape

_Am I crazy?_

Siri stood before a giant hole in the tower, staring down at the burning inn below. Ralof was telling her to jump to the second floor and run toward the keep.

"I'll follow you, but I have to make sure my men get out," Ralof said, urging her forward.

Siri shook her head. If she was going to do it, what was the use of thinking about it?

She launched herself across the gap, landing on the second floor of the inn. The jump caused her ankles to throb in pain, but she stumbled through the flames and dropped to the first floor, running out into the open in search of the keep.

She ducked behind the remainders of a house and hid as the dragon landed on the wall nearby. It spoke not in the language of Tamriel, but in another language that Siri knew instinctively was more ancient than she could fathom. She looked at the dragon, hearing its words, feeling her body resonate with its voice. Hugging herself, she slid to the ground, trying to rid herself of the quaking feeling its voice inspired, even to her very bones.

_What is going on?_

The dragon's vicious roars snapped Siri back into reality and she stood up, ankles still sore, and ran toward the keep, where she ran into Ralof once more.

"Come with me!"

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door, shutting it firmly behind them as he caught his breath. Catching sight of a Stormcloak sprawled on the ground, he walked over to the limp figure, checked for a heartbeat, then stood up once more.

"We will meet again in Sovngarde, sister," he murmured, so softly that Siri had to lean forward to hear. After a brief moment of prayer, Ralof turned to her.

"You might as well take Haema's armor," he said. "She won't be needing it anymore…" Quickly Siri removed the woman's armor and donned it, along with the fur gauntlets and fur boots. Stowing away her ragged tunic for later, she picked up Haema's iron war-axe and looked to Ralof.

"Lead the way," she said.

As the two emerged into the sunlight once more, Siri breathed a sigh of relief. She was sure that bear would tear her to pieces…but it had merely circled once and fallen asleep once more, facing away from the two figures hiding in the shadows across the room.

Siri hooked her war-axe back into its belt and squatted down by Ralof, watching as the dragon flew off.

"I think it's really gone," said Ralof, standing up. Then he clapped Siri's shoulder. "Thanks to you, friend, I made it out of Helgen alive. I couldn't have done it without your help!"

"It was really something…" said Siri, looking up at the blue sky and clouds.

"You sure made short work of that Imperial captain," Ralof said with a grin, almost gleeful. "You definitely gave those Imperials what-for!"

It was true, Siri had killed the Imperial captain. They had come across her in the back room of the keep, huddled with a couple of her soldiers. Rather than accepting Ralof and Siri's offer of aid in escaping Helgen, the captain had ordered her men to attack—which they did, reluctantly. While Ralof dealt easily with the captain's two goons, Siri had lunged at the woman, pinning her to the floor and holding an iron dagger to her throat.

"So," she said. "Sleeping in the woods is a capital offense now? Or is there another reason your men abducted me from my campsite?" The captain glared disdainfully at Siri.

"You Nords," she hissed. "All the same. Dirty Stormcloaks."

"I am not a Stormcloak," replied Siri, so softly that Ralof couldn't hear her. "My sympathies lie with the Empire. Do you make a habit out of executing your own?"

The Redguard stared at Siri, stone-faced.

"Give my regards to Shor," whispered Siri, her voice venomously sweet, her lips so close to the captain's ear that she could feel the warmth of Siri's breath as she spoke. "That is, if the afterlife has a place for murderers like you."

With that, Siri slit the woman's throat and stood, watching the Redguard gasp for air as blood bubbled from her throat. The Imperial captain grasped weakly at the air around her with her right hand, trying to find Siri, while the other hand was clasped to her neck in a delirious attempt to stop her life-blood from escaping. Moments later, however, her arm dropped and her body slumped, unmoving, to the floor.

Vengeance.

It was Ralof who called Siri back from her reverie. "I think we'd best split up," he said. "You should head for Riverwood. My sister, Gerdur, works the mill there—she will be happy to help you, I know." He clasped her shoulder briefly, a smile on his face. "I owe you my life," he said. "What's your name, anyway?"

"I'm Siri," she said simply. Ralof looked at her for a moment as though thinking.

"Well Siri, you should come to Windhelm and join the Stormcloaks. Goodness knows we could use someone like you." Then, with a smile, he turned and walked away down the mountain.


	4. From Falkreath to Riverwood

It was late when Siri reached Falkreath; though it was not a long way from Helgen, she and Ralof hadn't made it out of the keep until late afternoon, and the journey across the hold was not insignificant. Before she reached the town, she found a secluded spot in the woods and changed back into her roughspun tunic and footwraps, discarding the Stormcloak armor she had worn.

Walking through the town revived many old memories. Here was the blacksmith; there was the alchemist; over there, the general goods store. As she got closer to her da's farm, her pace picked up subconsciously, until she was at a run. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she reached the wheat field and approached the front door, which swung open as she reached to knock.

"Siri." It was her uncle, Honmund. His face was tired and creased; he looked much older than he had when she'd left for Cyrodiil. However, his eyes lit up, and it seemed as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Come in. You made it…but by the Divines, you look as though you've been to hell and back!" Siri shook her head.

"I'll tell you all about it. It was quite a trip. Is da…?"

"He's in here. I'm so glad you made it when you did…I fear that the Divines may call him soon." Honmund led Siri to her father's bedroom.

"Siri?"

The voice rasped from the bed as the man looked up from his bed. He was not old, but his illness had made him frail. She hurried to his bedside, kneeling down beside him and taking his hand.

"Da! I thought I would never see you again!" she said, tears beginning to well in her eyes. "I came as soon as I got Uncle's missive…but I was detained by the Imperials, and they kept me imprisoned for almost a week and tried to execute me…" she stopped herself as her father's eyes widened in horror, but seeing that her father and uncle were curious to know more, she related her tale to them, not sparing a detail.

At the end of her story, her father, Thongar, lay back weakly against the pillow.

"I suppose it is a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time…" he sighed. Siri nodded.

"I am not joining the rebels, Da," she said. "Ralof's invitation was flattering, but despite all of this, my loyalties lie with Skyrim—and we all know it would be foolish for Skyrim to turn the Empire away now."

"That's my girl, ever wise beyond her years," he said, smiling and reaching for her face. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb, looking lovingly into her eyes. "I'm glad I got to see you, my flower, before I joined your ma in Aetherius." Siri held his hand to her cheek.

"I love you, Da," she murmured. Thongar smiled and lay back against his pillow, eyes shutting slowly, his arm going slack. Siri stood up, tears in her eyes, and hugged her uncle. Tears were leaking from her uncle's eyes as well, and they held onto each other as they mourned Thongar's passing—each the only family the other had left in the world.

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><p>The next morning, Siri rose with the dawn and began digging a grave while her uncle fetched a coffin from the carpenter. Much to Siri's surprise, a good part of the town turned out to pay their respects to her father. It didn't bother her, though; it was good to have the comfort of others as she grieved.<p>

Late that evening, Siri stopped by the blacksmith with a heavy coinpurse to purchase some armor. She was going to make the trip to Riverwood, leaving the farm in the care of Honmund, and wanted to be well-armored just in case.

"Hello, Lod," she said.

"Well, well," Lod replied. "Siri! It's been a while. I'm sorry to hear about your father. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Siri nodded in thanks.

"I was hoping I could buy some armor," she said. Then, almost reluctantly, she asked, "How is Iver?"

Lod looked up at the mention of his son. He had not forgotten about the history Iver and Siri had.

"He's doing well, last I heard. Went off to Windhelm to join the Stormcloaks a few months ago," Lod said. Then, hesitantly, he pulled something from his pocket. "He, uh, left this note for you, in case you came back." Siri accepted the note, but returned to the reason she had come to Lod in the first place.

"Thank you," she said. "You wouldn't happen to have any leather armor, would you? I need something light—I'm trying to cover a lot of ground relatively quickly." Lod nodded.

"Got a full set of leather, just finished it this morning," he said. "If you want to try it on now I can get it fitted for you so you can be on your way again as soon as possible."

Siri left Lod's shortly thereafter with a new set of leather armor, along with matching boots and bracers. She stopped at her home briefly to bid her uncle farewell. Halting before her father's grave, she said a prayer to Arkay and laid the flower of a dragon's tongue plant on the mound of freshly turned earth before turning to the road.

She journeyed past Helgen, up to Riverwood, and decided to spend the night there. While she sat in the Sleeping Giant Inn that evening, nursing a tankard of ale, she pulled out Iver's note.

_My dear Siri,_

_I have lost count of the days that have passed since you left, and my heart still yearns for your return. But I have heard the call of duty, and as a true Nord, I am answering it and traveling to Windhelm to join Ulfric Stormcloak and his men in fighting for the liberty of Skyrim. I hope we will meet again soon; if you are back in Skyrim, as I feel justified in assuming you are (since you are reading this note I left with Father), I hope you will look me up if your travels take you to Windhelm. It broke my heart to see you leave. I have missed your warm touch, your laughter, and your kisses. Please, my darling, if you are reading this, there is nothing I wouldn't give to see your face again._

_Endless Love,_

_Iver_

Siri rose, gulped the last of her ale down, and dropped Iver's note into the fire without a second thought.

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><p>She rose early the next morning. Her conversation with Gerdur the day before had convinced her that Jarl Balgruuf—the jarl of Whiterun Hold—needed to know about the dragon immediately, so Siri had risen before the sun rose to prepare for the trip. She had hunted down some wolves for leather to mend and upgrade her armor, packed the rest of her belongings, and now stood on Riverwood's main street, waiting for Riverwood Trader to open so she could buy healing potions and sell the extra supplies that were weighing her down.<p>

At half past seven, Siri heard someone walk down a flight of stairs toward the door; a moment later she heard a click and the slide of a bolt. She pushed the door timidly and walked inside the store, only to discover a man and a woman quarreling.

"No heroics! End of discussion!" yelled the man. At first Siri thought they were married, but then noticed their identical eyes and ears, and realized that they must be brother and sister.

"Ah, a customer. Sorry you had to see that. What can I do for you?" asked the man, hurrying to position himself behind the counter.

"Is something wrong?" asked Siri, unable to help herself.

"Oh, it's nothing. A few nights ago some bandits broke into our store and made off with something of mine—a golden dragon claw. But it's not a big deal; I don't want my sister rushing out and putting herself in danger over it."

"I could retrieve it for you, if you want," Siri offered, casting an eye at the woman.

"Really? That would be kind of you. My name's Lucan, by the way," he said, offering his hand. "Lucan Valerius. And this is my sister, Camilla." Siri shook his hand warmly.

"Nice to meet you, Lucan. Do you have any idea where these bandits might have gone?"

Camilla piped up. "We're certain they went over to Bleak Falls Barrow," she said. "Although why anyone would seek that place out is beyond me. I've heard tales of…unnatural things happening when people disturb the old barrows of Skyrim."

Siri nodded. As a young girl, her father had always warned her to stay away from the ancient Nordic ruins.

"You'll meet your death in there," he'd told her, but had refused to elaborate.

Camilla led Siri out of the shop and pointed to the mountain in the east. "That mountain is where Bleak Falls Barrow is located," she said. "Just follow the road up, and head north when you reach the old watch tower. Be careful, though," she advised, "I've heard there are wolves up the path, and maybe even some bandits."

Siri thanked Camilla and set off for the barrow.


	5. Pelagia Farm

After a long day of fighting bandits and nasty, undead Draugr, Siri returned to Riverwood—beaten, bruised and cut from her journey, but very much alive. She returned the claw to Lucan, much to his delight, and headed back to the Sleeping Giant Inn for another night.

Bleak Falls Barrow had been an ordeal, but at least she had acquired a sturdy iron shield and plenty of loot to sell to Lucan and Alvor. She had also walked away from the whole endeavor with a fair amount of gold; nothing like a little coin to line one's pocket.

At the end of the barrow, though, something had happened that Siri hadn't understood.

She had just come through the door to Bleak Falls Sanctum and stood, dumbfounded, at the beauty of the indoor sanctuary. Waterfalls cascaded down the walls and a stream encircled a raised area, on which an odd, curved wall covered in—_were they scratch marks?_—stood. As she had approached the bridge onto the platform, she heard a faint chanting and her heart began to race as she turned swiftly, scanning in all directions. Were there more Draugr?

At that very moment, a heavily armored Draugr climbed out of the coffin on the platform, and Siri had to fight fiercely to ensure that she wasn't forever entombed with it in the barrow.

When the Draugr was defeated, Siri approached the strange wall. The chanting grew louder; Siri plugged her ears to block out the noise, but it didn't help. The chanting was within her body, resonating once more with her very soul. She looked at the wall, focusing on a word that seemed to be glowing, and suddenly…

_Fus…_

The word burned bright blue for a moment, and she suddenly knew what it said. _Fus_. But she had no idea what it meant, or why the word had jumped off the wall at her the way it did. Unable to shake the word from her mind, she had departed from the barrow quickly, leaving the strange wall behind as quickly as she could.

Siri was very glad now to be back at the Sleeping Giant Inn. She took a large swig from her tankard of ale, listening to the fire crackling; as the hour became late, her tankard emptied, and eventually she drifted to her room to sleep.

The next morning, Siri slept in until eight; after a quick trip to Riverwood Trader to sell Lucan the extra equipment she had acquired in Bleak Falls Barrow, she headed up the road to Whiterun.

The walk along the White River was beautiful and scenic. Except for dispatching a couple of scraggly wolves, Siri spent most of the walk admiring the beauty of the Skyrim countryside.

_This is why I came home_, she thought, taking a deep breath of the crisp air.

It wasn't long before Siri spotted buildings in the distance. Checking the map she had bought from Lucan that day, she decided that the building nearest her was the Honningbrew Meadery.

_I could use a stiff drink!_ she thought, picking up her pace. She cut away from the road, wandering down the hillside instead; in no time at all, she found herself standing at the doors.

Suddenly she heard a roar. Not the roar of a dragon, but a deep bellowing—it seemed to be coming from just west of the meadery. Abandoning all hope of a drink, Siri drew her axe and sprinted until she discovered the source of the commotion.

A giant was attacking Pelagia Farm; while there were already three warriors fighting it, Siri was sure her help wouldn't be dismissed, and leapt enthusiastically into the fray. The combined skill of the four warriors brought the giant down in relatively short order; as Siri was sheathing her axe, one of the warriors, a Nord woman with fiery red hair and three slashes of green war paint across her face, approached her.

"You handle yourself well," the woman observed. "Have you thought about joining the Companions?"

_The Companions?_

Siri had heard of the Companions—was there a Nord who hadn't? When she was little, her father had regaled her with stories of the 500 Companions of Ysgramor; and she had to admit, there had been a time in her life when she wanted nothing more than to join the glorious ranks of the most honorable warriors in Skyrim.

"Your assessment is flattering," Siri responded modestly. "I shall make a point of stopping in Jorrvaskr when I arrive in Whiterun—where will I find it?"

"It's just south of Dragonsreach," replied the woman. "My name is Aela, by the way; these are my shield-siblings, Farkas and Ria. We'll hope to see you up at Jorrvaskr in the future."


	6. Jorrvaskr

It was not long before Siri found herself opening the doors to Jorrvaskr. She had spotted it from the Temple of Kynareth—the large building that looked like an overturned boat. When she entered, she was surprised at the scene that confronted her.

The mead hall rang with the sound of a brawl.

"Go, Athis! Knock her out!"

"Njada, you have him right where you want him!"

Several of the other Companions gathered around to watch two of the whelps duke it out over an ongoing disagreement, the nature of which none of those present could be sure. Siri approached cautiously, attempting to speak to any of the Companions, but each brushed her off to watch their comrades exchange blows. Siri looked around for Aela, the Companion who had invited her to come to Jorrvaskr, but saw her nowhere. In fact, she was completely stumped until a kindly old woman appeared at her shoulder.

"You look lost, dear. Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry," said Siri, "I didn't mean to intrude, but a woman named Aela invited me here to talk to someone about joining the Companions."

The old woman nodded. "You'll be looking for Kodlak, no doubt. He's downstairs in the living quarters. I can take you there," she said with a kindly smile. "By the way, dearie, my name is Tilma."

"It's nice to meet you, Tilma," replied Siri, cheered by the woman's kindness.

As they passed through the doors to the living quarters, Siri heard hushed voices; rounding the corner and walking down the hallway, she saw two figures seated at a table: an older man with long white hair and a beard to match, and one younger—probably about her own age, although he could have had a couple years on her—who had dark hair and fierce black war paint around his eyes.

"But I still hear the call of the blood," she heard the younger man say quietly.

"We all do," replied the older man. "It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome." The younger man cast a wary eye at the young woman approaching the table before turning back to the gray-haired figure beside him.

"You have my brother and I, obviously," he growled. "But I don't know if the rest will go along quite so easily."

Siri stepped slowly into the light from the candle on the table. She noted the rather ugly glare the younger man was giving her before addressing the older man.

"Excuse me," she said, attempting to make her voice sound as strong as possible. Under the younger man's gaze, it was hard to keep her voice from quaking. "I was told by a woman named Aela that I might be able to join you. I'm looking for the leader of the Companions?" Her statement ended as more of a question; clearly she guessed that this strong, seasoned Nord warrior was the Companions' leader. The gray-haired man smiled obligingly.

"There are no leaders in the Companions," he replied, "but if you are looking to join, I am the person you wish to speak to. My name is Kodlak. Now, let me see," he said, looking Siri over appraisingly.

"Master," protested the younger man, "you're not seriously considering letting her join? I've never even heard of this newcomer!"

"I am nobody's master, Vilkas," replied Kodlak calmly. "And last I checked, there are some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with fire in their hearts. Besides," he added, smiling in Siri's direction, "sometimes the famous seek us, sometimes people come to us to seek their fame." The younger man, Vilkas, sat sullenly in his chair as Kodlak returned his attention to the Nord woman.

"Now, young lady, what is your name?" he asked.

"My name is Siri, sir," she replied.

"Siri. What a lovely name. Tell me, Siri, how are you in battle?"

She shrugged modestly. "I can handle myself," she said. Kodlak nodded.

"Very well then. This is Vilkas," he said, gesturing to the surly young man seated beside him. "Vilkas, take this new blood out to the training yard and see how she is with a weapon."

Wordlessly, still wearing a scowl, Vilkas stood and walked away toward the training yard.

* * *

><p>Out in the training yard, Vilkas was striking savagely at the practice dummies, moving rapidly from one to the next. He didn't have to turn to notice when the new blood entered the courtyard; her scent made its way to him and he sheathed his sword, turning to face her.<p>

"So, Kodlak thinks you have what it takes to be a Companion," he said. "Fine. Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don't worry," he added, "I can take it."

Hesitantly, Siri drew her war-axe and struck at Vilkas. He deflected her blade easily with his shield.

"You're going to have to do better than that if you want to be a Companion, milk drinker," he growled at her. "Of course, if you want to give up and go home, that's fine too. Some people aren't cut out to be Companions…"

The blood rose in Siri's cheeks at the Nord man's arrogant words. Gritting her teeth, she lunged with all her might at Vilkas, striking his shield and staggering him. Without hesitation, she spun around, landing a hard blow on his shoulder, and sending him stumbling clumsily back into the dummy behind him. After righting himself, the man sheathed his weapon and looked her in the eye.

"Not bad," he said. "But you're still new to us, whelp, which means you do what you're told. Now, take my sword up to Eorlund at the Skyforge. It needs to be sharpened." He walked away, calling over his shoulder, "And be careful. It's probably worth more than you are."

Siri glared at the haughty Nord called Vilkas, seething with rage. What she wouldn't give to bury an axe in his back… teach him a lesson for his arrogance.


	7. Dragonborn

That infernal sound…the dragon's shouts…

Siri was crouched in the Western Watchtower outside Whiterun, her hunting bow in her hand. She had spoken with Jarl Balgruuf, told him everything she knew about the attack on Helgen, and had been speaking with Farengar Secret-Fire about the odd Dragonstone she had found in Bleak Falls Barrow when suddenly her presence had been requested on the upper floors of Dragonsreach—it seemed the Jarl needed her assistance.

And here she was, fighting a dragon.

Notching an arrow to her bow, Siri ran up the watchtower steps until she was near the top; not daring to venture onto the roof, lest the dragon burn her to a crisp, she remained on the stairs, where she could easily duck back into the protection of the stone walls.

She loosed arrow after arrow; Mirmulnir seemed too caught up with the soldiers running about to pay any attention to her, until one of the arrows caught him in the jaw. Turning angrily, he called to her in the language of the dragons…a sudden burst of fire issued from his mouth…the sounds, resonating within her core…

She attempted to back out of the way and stumbled, tumbling back a few steps until she managed to catch herself. Ignoring the scrapes on her knees, she ran down the stairs and outside, just in time for the dragon to land on the plains nearby. Drawing her war-axe, she charged.

The guards continued to loose arrows at the dragon while Siri hacked at its neck and head with her axe. Mirmulnir roared furiously at her—the arrogance of this mortal!—and lunged.

One by one the soldiers' bowstrings went slack as they watched in awe. Siri kicked the dragon in the jaw, knocking it off balance and momentarily disorienting it; without waiting, she leapt onto its face, straddling its neck, her feet resting on the spikes protruding from either side of its head. When she drew her axe once more, Mirmulnir felt a tremble in his soul as realization struck him. Moments later, the dragon began to go limp, her axe buried between its eyes.

_Dovahkiin…NO!_

Siri felt her knees go weak at the cry the dragon gave as it expired, and she collapsed to the ground, suddenly fatigued. She laid a hand on the dragon's snout, gazing into its lifeless eyes, and was overwhelmed by the beauty and elegance of the slain beast.

"Mirmulnir…" she murmured.

Suddenly the dragon's scales grew hot, and Siri had to pull her hand away to prevent a burn. She stumbled back, completely dumbstruck, as the dragon's corpse began do disintegrate—as though it were made of paper that had caught a spark. Soon, nothing was left but its skeleton…

Siri staggered, instinctively closing her eyes. It felt as though a gust of wind had just hit her. She could hear something swirling around her, felt it against her exposed flesh. It had a peculiar heat to it—was it another dragon? Was she being devoured by flames?

Opening her eyes, Siri found that the feeling had stopped. She also found the eyes of every Whiterun guard upon her. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, until one of the guards spoke.

"Dragonborn!"


	8. Heartache

Siri was relieved to have a free bed in Jorrvaskr—the inns of Skyrim had lightened her purse considerably. Collapsing onto her bed, she didn't have much time for reflection; sleep claimed her almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She slept fitfully that night, her dreams disturbed by dragons and death. When she did manage to sleep peacefully, her dream was hounded by yet another memory—significantly less violent, but terrifying nevertheless: the man she hadn't seen in almost two years visited her mind, tormenting her in her sleep.

Siri had been fifteen when she had first noticed Iver, the son of Lod the blacksmith. Like Siri's ma, Iver's mother had given her life bringing him into the world; the two had bonded over their common loss and become fast friends.

Though Iver was two years her senior, Siri had never felt closer to another in her life. The two hunted and fished, watched the stars, shared secrets. One day, shortly after Siri's nineteenth birthday, they shared their first kiss in the pine forest right outside Falkreath. It had not been six months since the kiss when Lod had gone out of town to mine iron ore; that day, Siri gave herself to Iver, convinced that he was the only man she would ever love.

Barely a month passed before he broke her heart.

Now twenty-one and itching to get away from Falkreath, Iver had been drinking in the inn one night when a few travelers came in off the road—a man and two women. One of the women was clearly spoken for already; he could see the firelight glint off the Bond of Matrimony on her finger. The other, however, spent the better part of the evening making eyes at Iver.

Siri supposed it had been the thrill of the unknown, or perhaps the adventure—an exotic woman who had seen so much of Skyrim, who had killed trolls and brought down sabre cats—that had drawn him to her. Whatever Iver's reasons, though, he had followed the woman into her room. The innkeeper had already retired for the night, not expecting any new travelers to pass through, so when Siri came into the inn seeking Iver, she found the room deserted. Curious, she circled the hearth, wondering where he could have gone; it was then that she heard his voice coming from one of the rooms. He sounded drunk—she hoped he wasn't getting himself into any mischief.

The moment she pushed open the door she wished she hadn't. A strangled gasp of shock escaped her lips before she clapped a hand to her mouth. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and in that moment, he knew he had lost her. She ran from the inn; he tossed the other woman aside, scrabbling to reach his clothes and follow her, but by the time he made it outside, it was too late. She was gone.


	9. Flight

She had snuck in the night before, desperately wishing to avoid drawing the attention of the other Companions, but in the morning, Siri had no such luck. She entered the main hall and was making a beeline for the doors to Whiterun when Ria ran up to her.

"Is it true, what everyone's saying?" she asked excitedly. "That you killed a dragon, and the Jarl made you Thane? That you're…Dragonborn?"

As Ria spoke, the other Companions noticed Siri and approached her, eager to question her about the previous day's events. Knowing that she wouldn't be allowed to leave without providing some answers, Siri sighed.

"Yes, it's true," she said, unwilling to say much more.

"But…how did _you_ of all people manage to kill a dragon?" Njada asked skeptically, a resentful scowl clear on her brow.

"I—"

Before Siri could say another word, Farkas appeared at her shoulder.

"Hey guys, leave Siri alone," he said. "It's pretty obvious she doesn't want to be bothered right now."

Although the other whelps were still curious, none wanted to incur the wrath of Farkas—by far the biggest, strongest member of the Circle—and reluctantly they left Siri standing alone next to Farkas.

She gave him a small, tired smile. "Thank you, Farkas," she said simply. The big man shrugged.

"They looked like they were bothering you, so I made 'em leave you alone. You seem like you want to be by yourself right now." Siri nodded, gave Farkas another smile, and quickly exited Jorrvaskr.

Back at the tables, Njada was sulking.

"Why is _she_ the Dragonborn, anyway?" Njada asked. "It's not fair! She's such a skinny little milk drinker, not a true Nord warrior like I am. If the Divines had made me Dragonborn, I bet I could have killed _ten_ dragons by now." Ria shrugged passively as another figure at the table stood up and set down his tankard.

"Watch your tongue, whelp," said Vilkas coldly. "I'd be willing to wager that that skinny little milk drinker could best you in a fight."

Without another word, Vilkas pushed open the doors and went out to the training yard, leaving Njada sitting in mortified silence.

* * *

><p>Siri ran across the plains, attempting to put as much space as possible between herself and Whiterun. She needed to get away, to have a moment to herself to just <em>think<em>.

She ran west until she felt she couldn't run anymore, to the high, rocky hills west of Fort Greymoor. Ignoring her tired body's protestations, she began to climb, scaling boulders and pulling herself up sheer rock faces. Finally she dragged herself onto a ledge and sat, recovering, gazing out over the sweeping Skyrim landscape.

The view was unmarred: there were no buildings in sight; man had not left his mark here yet. All Siri could see were rivers, trees, and a few mammoths wandering across the plains. She lay back, still breathing heavily, and the clouds shifting across the sky turned her thoughts to her home.

Reaching into the new satchel on her belt, Siri pulled out an old, well-worn amulet. Fortunately her da had always taught her to hide her valuables while she slept; the night the Imperials had seized her, she had tucked the amulet into her chest bindings—a place no decent man would search. She held the amulet up, examining it, though she already knew it well.

It was an Amulet of Talos, given to Siri by her elder brother Beirir on her fourteenth birthday. Born six years before his younger sister, Beirir had always felt a strong need to protect her.

"_Siri, this is my present," he said, holding out a small, parchment-wrapped package. Siri unwrapped it carefully, then, shocked, looked up at her brother._

"_But…Beirir, this is your Amulet of Talos!" she cried, incredulous. He smiled nostalgically and shrugged._

"_Talos has protected me all these years," he said, "but I'm not worried about myself anymore. I am asking him to protect my baby sister now."_

_Siri held the amulet reverently, letting the chain snake through her fingers, running her thumbs across the designs engraved upon the pendent. With a small smile she donned the amulet, the emblem of Talos resting just below her collarbone. She looked at Beirir, tears welling in her eyes._

"_I will do my best to deserve this, brother," she said._

Siri put on the amulet, playing with it absentmindedly as she looked out to the horizon. She knew it was foolish to wish for the impossible, but the desire to see her brother's face once more welled up in her heart. She had always blamed herself for his disappearance: he had gone missing two months after giving her the amulet, and had been missing now for almost seven years. A small part of her still held out hope that he was alive somewhere, but she knew better than to dream such childish dreams. Beirir was gone, and he would never come back.

_And I am all alone._


	10. Dustman's Cairn

Upon her return to Jorrvaskr, Siri expected to be set upon once more, but such was not the case. Instead, to her surprise, the only person to approach her was Farkas, and it was simply with the offer of work: rough up Uthgerd the Unbroken in the Bannered Mare for a client. The job seemed simple enough, and it was; she returned to Jorrvaskr not half an hour later. Farkas smiled, amused, as she walked up to him sporting a blackened left eye.

"So, how did it go?" he asked. Siri looked at him appraisingly for a moment before breaking into a smile herself.

"She got a couple good hits in," she replied, gesturing to her bruised face, "but I bested her in the end. She even bought me a tankard of ale afterward. Do you have anything else that needs doing?"

Farkas shook his head. "No. Skjor was looking for you, said to send you to him when you got back," he said, gesturing to the tables around the fire pit.

Siri approached Skjor, not sure how the man felt about the Companions' newest whelp. He looked up at her, putting his bread down on the table.

"There you are," he said. "We have a special job for you this time, new blood." Siri raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What will I be doing this time?" she asked.

"Last week a scholar came to us. Said he had located a fragment of Wuuthrad." Skjor paused. "You do know what Wuuthrad is, right?"

Siri looked insulted. "Are you really asking me that?" she asked.

"You never know, whelp," said Skjor. "Anyway, you are being tasked with seeking out this supposed fragment. We've decided this will be your Trial; do well in this, and you will be counted among the Companions." He gave Siri a meaningful look, then continued. "Farkas will go with you as a shield-brother on this mission. Try not to disappoint…or get him killed." With that, Skjor stood and took his leave to the courtyard, leaving Siri to find Farkas.

* * *

><p>It was a long way to Dustman's Cairn—darkness had begun to settle upon the landscape when they arrived. Siri had no idea how he knew, but as they drew close to the standing stones near the ruin, Farkas stopped her.<p>

"Bandits," he growled, unsheathing his greatsword. He stood for a moment—was he sniffing the air?—before charging up the mound at something Siri couldn't see. Drawing her axe, she looked about apprehensively. _Damn the dark!_ She heard the sounds of metal on metal, then heard a blade bury itself in flesh; a body tumbled to the ground ahead of her, and Siri, becoming increasingly agitated, advanced.

On the other side of the rise, she found Farkas. He was wiping his greatsword clean on a necromancer's robes; not far away lay a bandit's corpse, blood still seeping onto the grass. Siri looked at him, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion.

"How did you-?"

Farkas cut her off.

"We should get this over with," he said.

The two entered Dustman's Cairn and almost immediately stumbled across more necromancers. Dispatching them relatively quickly, they continued on through the barrow until they couldn't go any further.

"A grate?" asked Siri, exasperated.

"Look for a switch," said Farkas, and the two began exploring the room. A few minutes later, Siri found one. Throwing her weight against the ancient lever, she managed to trip the mechanism—only to find herself confined to the small alcove by another portcullis.

"Look what you did," groaned Farkas. "Can you pull the lever back?"

Siri tried to push the lever back in the other direction, but to no avail. The ancient lever was jammed, and she doubted even Farkas could dislodge it.

"Fine. I'll go find the trigger." Farkas turned away, but didn't get three steps toward the other door before five people—were they bandits, too?—appeared, blocking his path.

"Well, well, if it isn't one of Kodlak's little puppies," sneered one of the aggressors, pulling out what appeared to be a sword made entirely of silver. Siri watched in horror, helpless.

"Which one is this?" asked another.

"It doesn't matter," responded the first one. "He's one of them, he dies."

Seeing that Farkas was outnumbered five-to-one, Siri quickly fumbled around, searching for her bow and arrows. Turning back, she dropped her bow in astonishment.

Before her eyes, Farkas dropped his weapon and started to shake. He was almost doubled over, and she watched as fur began to sprout across his body. His shoulders broadened (if such a thing was even possible for Farkas) and he grew taller; his already barrel-like chest grew larger still as he pulled viciously at his armor. The courage of the bandits before him seemed to waver for a moment, but they stood their ground until his horrible transformation was complete. Siri thanked the Divines that the portcullis was down, for with a deafening roar, Farkas leapt upon the bandits—_a werewolf!_

Farkas made short work of the remaining bandits, tackling the last one to the ground and tearing at him with his long claws until the man stopped moving. Farkas-wolf looked up at Siri for a moment, and she saw that his eyes were no longer silvery-blue; they had turned into the golden-green eyes of a beast. The two stood for a moment, staring at each other, before Farkas turned and took off deeper into the crypt.

Siri wondered immediately whether Farkas would return—did he retain his mind as a wolf, or was he lost? Would he forget that she was here?

A moment later, the portcullis rose—much to Siri's chagrin—but when he returned, Farkas had already become a man once more. He was wearing nothing at all; Siri averted her gaze, blushing.

"I hope I didn't scare you," said Farkas, pulling his clothes back on. Then he laughed. "You're acting like you've never seen a naked man before!"

Siri glared at Farkas for a moment as he buckled his breastplate into place. Then, unable to help herself, she broke out laughing as well.

"You know," she said, trying to control her laughter, "I didn't really know what to make of you, Farkas."

"Well," Farkas replied with a chuckle, "now that you've seen me naked, I hope we can be friends. I feel like I've been walking on eggshells around you since we met!"

Siri nodded, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Sounds good to me. By the Divines though, what was that?" she asked, trying to keep a straight face, but unable to stifle a giggle. "I already thought you were gigantic, and then you…you just got _bigger!_"

"It's a blessing given to some of us," Farkas said, his face turning serious. "We can be like wild beasts. Fearsome."

"You're not…you're not going to turn me into a werewolf, are you?"

"No, no. You're just a new blood, anyway. Only the Circle have the beastblood." Farkas' face softened again. "We should keep moving. Still the Draugr to worry about." Siri nodded, and the two headed deeper into the dungeon.


	11. Friends

By the time the two reemerged from Dustman's Cairn, weary and bloodied, dawn's rosy fingers were beginning to extend above the horizon. As soon as they closed the door to the barrow, Siri flopped down onto the stone floor of the pit. Farkas sat down beside her, resting his back against a barrel.

"We probably shouldn't rest long," he said. Siri grunted unhappily, rolling over onto her stomach. She rested her chin on the ground and looked up at Farkas.

"Gods, you're an _absurdly_ large person," she said. He laughed.

"You're on the ground. Of course I look bigger from down there."

"I suppose we should go back," she said, looking up at the sky. Standing up, she looked down at her armor and exhaled sharply. Her armor, made only from leather, was beaten badly and shredded in some places from the axes of the Draugr—so badly so that she wondered if she should just make a new set when she returned to Whiterun.

"Your armor looks bad," said Farkas with a frown. "Why don't you use metal? It doesn't get messed up like that."

"Well," she said, smiling sweetly at her companion, "unlike some people, I would rather not have to contend with so much weight. I'm sure it's easy enough for you," she said. "But for smaller people like me, heavy armor can be a problem." Farkas shook his head with a smile.

"You're odd," he said. "Light armor…a little tiny axe…Vilkas uses a little sword, too. But I like the big swords. Big swords do more damage." Siri smiled. Farkas saw the world with charming simplicity, and it was refreshing.

Siri threw her arm around Farkas's shoulder, glad to have this Companion as a friend. "Shall we head on our way, O Immense One?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she extended a hand to help him up.

"Okay, friend. Lead the way."

* * *

><p>The trip back to Whiterun seemed to pass much more quickly than the trip from the city; Siri and Farkas had spent the time chatting about anything and everything—Siri even told him about her escape from Helgen, and about discovering she was Dragonborn. Farkas, unlike the other Companions, seemed unfazed by the information.<p>

"Sounds like you have a lot on your plate," he said simply, and left it there.

When they finally reached Jorrvaskr, Siri was nonplussed to see Vilkas waiting before the great doors. Waiting for her.

She approached, and immediately his face contorted into a sneer.

"Do you always allow your armor to be torn to pieces in the wilderness, whelp?" he asked scathingly. Farkas stepped forward.

"Brother, we had to fight about fifty Draugr before we could get the piece of Wuuthrad," he said. He clapped his hand to Siri's back, causing her to stumble forward a little bit. She quickly regained her balance; Farkas didn't seem to have noticed, but Vilkas certainly had—too much further forward and she would have stumbled right into him. "She fights well," Farkas added, smiling at his new friend.

"Well in any case, the Circle is waiting for you in the courtyard." Vilkas turned on his heel and walked swiftly away. Siri looked up at Farkas.

"Is your brother always so unpleasant to the new bloods?" she asked. Farkas's brow was furrowed slightly as he watched his brother walk away.

"Vilkas doesn't like new people," he said. "But he seems to like you less than most."

Siri was a bit taken aback by Farkas's frank appraisal, but she couldn't fault him for it in the least—Vilkas clearly had something against her.


	12. Fury

Farkas watched Siri return to Jorrvaskr before turning to Vilkas.

"You seem troubled, brother. What's wrong?"

Vilkas, too, had been watching Siri. He did not take his eyes from her until the doors of Jorrvaskr closed behind her.

"Many things, Farkas."

"She's nice. You should give her a chance."

Vilkas looked at his brother; he opened his mouth as though he wanted to speak, but thought better of it and turned away once more.

"Brother," prompted Farkas, who knew there was something his brother wanted to say. After a long silence, Vilkas relented, a scowl darkening his features.

"There's just something about her…" he growled.

* * *

><p>A few weeks passed. Siri, now training daily with her shield-siblings and regularly accepting contracts from Aela and Farkas, had begun at last to feel as though she really belonged among the Companions.<p>

Until one day, when things with Vilkas came to a head very suddenly.

Siri was returning from another job—Aela had received word that poor Severio Pelagia had somehow wound up with a sabre cat in his farmhouse—when she caught sight of Farkas. She waved excitedly, not noticing that Vilkas was standing a few feet in front of her. By the time she knew he was there, it was too late—she walked straight into him and she and Vilkas both toppled to the ground. The man sprang to his feet, seething with rage, a hand reaching for his sword.

"Watch yourself, whelp!" he spat viciously. Siri was taken aback at first, but then felt rage beginning to build in her core.

"My name is Siri," she growled back. "You'd do well to remember that, Vilkas." Shock hung in the air—was this new blood really speaking to Vilkas, essentially the Companions' second-in-command, in such a manner?

"You will _not_ speak to me so insolently!" he bellowed, launching himself at Siri.

He tackled her, knocking her to the ground. As both warriors sprawled across the stone, Siri realized her axe had been knocked away; Vilkas was likewise unable to locate his sword. Without a proper weapon, Siri realized that she would be brawling with Vilkas. On the one hand the thought pleased her—to see the look on his arrogant face when she bested him!—but on the other, she knew that she was in for a hard fight; Vilkas, though not as large as his brother, was nevertheless a formidable man.

Siri threw the first punch, catching Vilkas in the jaw. This seemed only to anger the man, and he cut a sharp shot to her side, doubling her over in pain. Here, he had the advantage: while his heavy metal armor would easily deflect punches, her soft, torn leather armor was much more flexible and left her much more vulnerable to his attacks.

She had no time to stand or catch her breath. Instead, she took advantage of her position to push herself at Vilkas's waist, tackling him, taking him to the ground. His heavy armor sounded loudly against the stones.

Siri was no longer thinking clearly. Instead, battle fury clouding her eyes, she began pulling on Vilkas's breastplate with all the might she could muster. She was gratified when the leather straps holding the two halves of the armor gave way, breaking from the metal shell; she discarded the armor at once, leaving Vilkas's chest bare and vulnerable.

Vilkas unseated her furiously. His blood had begun to boil: he needed to retaliate for this humiliation. Standing up, he landed a punch on her cheekbone, another catching her in the shoulder and staggering her. She recovered quickly, landing a blow right below his collarbone.

The two circled each other like wild animals for a few moments, each breathing hard, trying to catch the other in a moment of weakness. A bruise had begun to form on Siri's cheek, and Vilkas's chest bore signs of her abuse as well. His mouth began to curl in a nasty snarl as Siri glared at him, pure, unadulterated hatred evident in her eyes.

Suddenly, Siri faltered. There—she had seen something—a flash in his eyes, something familiar. She couldn't place it, but it unsettled her immensely, and in fear, she lost all urge to fight, instead beginning to back away.

At that moment, Kodlak broke through the crowd surrounding the brawl. Apparently he had seen it too.

"Vilkas! _Enough!_" roared the older man.

It was as though Vilkas had awakened from a dream. Slowly his body relaxed, and suddenly he realized that he was no longer wearing his breastplate—it was sprawled, straps broken, twenty feet away from where he stood. Immediately, he felt lost, vulnerable, shamed. He grabbed his breastplate off the ground and stormed quickly back to Jorrvaskr, the large doors shutting heavily behind him.

When Siri looked up at Kodlak, his eyes were stern. She did, however, detect a softer note behind them.

"Siri," he said, "I will speak to you in my quarters at once. Get cleaned up and meet me downstairs."

As he turned back to Jorrvaskr and the Companions dispersed, she looked around, confused and in pain. For an instant, she caught Farkas's eye, but Vilkas's twin looked very upset, and looked away a moment later.

A moment, however, was all it took for Siri to realize what she had seen in Vilkas's eyes—what Kodlak had seen, and the reason he had stepped in to end the brawl. In his eyes, she had seen his beastblood rising.

_His wolf—rising for the kill…_


	13. Valtheim Towers

**A/N: **Wow, so...this chapter is significantly longer than any of the other ones so far, but I just couldn't stop! Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Also...sorry for the multiple re-publishes. I keep noticing little things that need to be changed after I've already published it...

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><p><em>Not even time for a hot bath<em>, Siri lamented as she walked purposefully toward Kodlak's quarters. She had rinsed her face with cold water in an attempt to soothe the bruise by her eye, but her body ached from Vilkas's onslaught. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the doors to Kodlak's quarters—the room where she had first encountered that arrogant bastard Vilkas—and was shocked to find him sitting at the table. He had not replaced his breastplate; instead he sat, bare-chested, waiting for Kodlak to return. Siri looked away from him quickly, but it didn't matter; Vilkas was avoiding her gaze, too.

Kodlak appeared behind Siri suddenly. "Vilkas," he said, "I've taken your armor up to Eorland. He says he'll have it ready for you in a couple hours." Vilkas nodded silently, and the Harbinger turned to Siri.

"Siri, my darling, please sit."

Siri obliged grudgingly, sitting in the chair opposite Vilkas, as Kodlak closed the doors to his study. The Harbinger turned back to them a moment later, his eyes stern once more.

"I am not going to pry into the details of your quarrel with one another," he began. "But you, Vilkas, are one of the Circle. You are supposed to be above this. And Siri, though you are new to us, I have very high expectations for you. You have already proven yourself to be more steadfast and even-headed than Ria and Njada, your peers. I expected better of you."

Siri hung her head in shame.

"I apologize, Harbinger," she said softly. But Kodlak shook his head.

"No, I'm afraid an apology won't cut it," he said. "You must do something for me to atone for this lapse in your behavior." He turned to the map on his desk and pointed to a marking.

"This," he continued, "is the wreck of the Winter War. It is a notorious bandit den. Usually they just pick pockets, sometimes break into houses. But I understand their leader is getting desperate for more skooma money. He has resorted to kidnapping." Kodlak turned back to Vilkas and Siri. "In order to right this wrong, I am sending the two of you to rescue the citizen. His name is Odfel, and he is a resident of Shor's Stone. The bandits are holding him for ransom, but if they are made to wait too long, they may get nervous and kill him."

Vilkas looked immediately repulsed by the idea of having to accompany Siri anywhere. "But Kodlak—"

"This discussion is over," said the Harbinger pointedly. "You are dismissed."

Vilkas stood up silently and walked away, a scowl on his face. When he had disappeared from view, Kodlak caught Siri's shoulder.

"Are you okay, Siri?" he asked, worry in his eyes. "Vilkas can dish out quite a beating when he's a mind to."

Siri nodded. "Nothing a little Restoration magic can't fix," she said. Then, "Harbinger, when I was fighting with him, he got this…weird look in his eyes."

Kodlak sighed. "Vilkas usually keeps a pretty level head. Today his blood ran hot…I couldn't tell you why," he said with a shrug.

Siri nodded and took her leave. Heading to the whelps' quarters, she opened the chest at the foot of her bag and began gathering supplies. She had just closed the chest when she realized that Farkas was standing behind her.

"Hi Farkas," she said sheepishly.

"Siri," he began. His brow was furrowed as he searched for words. "Be safe," he said finally. "And...take care of Vilkas."

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><p>They had been walking in uncomfortable silence for almost an hour now, and Siri was getting tired of his resentful silence.<p>

"You can just go back, you know," she said. "I can take care of this by myself."

Vilkas answered her words with a cold glare, and the two continued to walk in silence.

It began to snow as they passed Pelagia Farm; at first a friendly flurry, the snow soon became heavier, and the thick clouds blotted out the late afternoon sunlight.

"We need to find shelter for the night," she said, yelling over the wind. She pulled out her map of Skyrim. They were walking along the river right now, and seemed to be approaching a building up ahead, with a bridge spanning the river. _Perfect_.

She pointed to the towers ahead. "Valtheim," she said. "If we can get there, we'll be out of the wind." Vilkas simply glared and began trudging toward the towers. Siri walked with him until he stuck out an arm and held her back. He was doing the same thing she had seen Farkas do at Dustman's Cairn—sniffing the air.

"There are bandits up ahead," he growled, unsheathing his sword. "Five or six, I'd say. In this weather it will be a difficult fight." Siri pulled out her axe, and they approached the tower.

A cooking pot stood outside the door to the tower, which had been shut against the cold. The fire had been extinguished, but Siri could still feel heat radiating off the pot—the bandits were definitely nearby. With a meaningful look at Vilkas, she pushed the door open.

There was one bandit immediately inside the door. He turned, surprised by the blast of cold air, and drew his weapon.

"Never should have come here…"

Vilkas cut the man down in one swift motion; at the same time, Siri dashed up the stairs, meeting another bandit—an archer—as he sat upon his bedroll. Before the man could pull out his dagger, she had buried her axe in his neck; with a gurgling breath, the man expired, blood running from his body and staining the bedroll.

A blood-curdling roar broke the snowy silence—it seemed Vilkas had found another bandit. Hurrying back down the steps, Siri stepped out the door to the bridge.

The first thing she saw was the archer across the river. Pulling out her bow, she pulled out an Orcish arrow, dipping the tip in poison. Notching the arrow to the bow, she took aim carefully; a moment later she let fly, and the archer slumped to the ground, dead. She put her bow away, pulling her axe out once more, and walked carefully up to the bridge.

The snow was sticking to the stone, making it slippery and treacherous, but despite the weather Vilkas had charged across the bridge. Siri reluctantly crossed after him. Passing a decapitated corpse, she hurried up the stairs toward the sound of conflict above her.

Vilkas had cornered the bandits' chief on the highest ledge of the tower. The two were fighting fiercely, but as she emerged from the staircase, Siri could see that Vilkas was wounded.

"Vilkas!" she yelled, catching the bandit chief's attention. He grinned darkly at Vilkas.

"When I've finished with you, weakling, I'll have your pretty little woman as my prize," he said tauntingly.

"I'd like to see you _try_ to get the best of her," snarled Vilkas, He took a step forward, bringing his sword around for another strike.

Suddenly he stopped.

As Vilkas stumbled backwards and tumbled down the stairs, Siri saw him clutching his arm, which hung limply at his side. Although terror coursed through her veins, she ran forward, up the stairs, and came face-to-face with the bandit chief.

He was a tall, broad Imperial; under his helmet, Siri caught a glimpse of unkempt, greasy amber hair. He leered at her, lowering his weapon—a hulking steel warhammer.

"Well look at this…no wonder your little friend was fighting so hard to protect you." He chuckled nastily.

"I would sooner die than allow myself to be defiled by the likes of you," Siri spat, lunging at the Imperial with her axe. He dodged out of the way easily, and then turned, his back to the river, and raised his weapon.

"Don't worry, sweetie," he cooed condescendingly, "I'll reunite you with your man soon enough."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Siri knew she would be unable to block a power attack from a warhammer; all she had was her little axe and her iron shield. She smiled in spite of herself, seeing the truth in Farkas's words: maybe she would have to reconsider big weapons if she survived. Then, suddenly, she realized what she needed to do. Calling upon the dragon soul within her, she shouted a single word.

_FUS!_

It was a weak shout, a poor example of the Thu'um, but the slippery snow on the wet wood of the platform made it very effective nonetheless. The bandit staggered backward and lost his footing, the weight of his heavy warhammer unbalancing him and sending him over the edge of the tower. Siri hurried to the tower's edge just in time to see the splash as he hit the water, and watched as the body bobbed up and down in the current of the raging river before disappearing over the waterfall up ahead.

A brief moment passed as Siri stood, awed by the potential of her Thu'um; then, remembering herself, she hastened down the stairs to Vilkas.

The Nord was drifting toward unconsciousness when Siri reached him, his left hand clutching his right arm. She carefully pried open his grip and began removing the steel plates from his arm. They were badly bent out of shape; it was plain that the bandit chief had landed more than one good blow to Vilkas's arm. When she had all of the armor off, she gaped at the sight before her.

Vilkas's upper arm had been decimated by the Imperial's warhammer. As Siri examined the arm, bloodied and broken, she realized that the bone was probably completely shattered. Nervously she set aside her axe and shield and, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, called upon her magicka.

Siri had plenty of experience with Restoration magic—how often had it saved her life in the wilds of Skyrim?—but she was still nervous as she reflected on the spell tome she had read several weeks ago: _Healing Hands_. She felt the warmth of the magic as it swirled in her palms, eager to be put to use. Carefully, she laid her hands upon Vilkas's arm, massaging the magic deep into his flesh, down to the shattered bone.

Vilkas flinched at her first touch as unbelievable pain gripped his arm like a vise. He tried to cry out, but the only sound he could manage was a strangled groan. Slowly the pain began to subside; try as he might, though, Vilkas could not seem to keep his heavy eyelids from shutting. The last thing he felt before slipping into sweet unconsciousness was the warmth of the Restoration magic as Siri's soft hands caressed his arm.


	14. Rest

_Bars…bars…by the Divines, I'm in a cage!_

Vilkas jerked awake, attempting to take stock of his surroundings. What a nightmare he had been having…

A little fire was burning in a corner of the tower, providing a small ring of warmth to a room otherwise open to the elements. Vilkas himself lay on a large bed, his body covered by furs. Shifting slightly, he sat up; the furs fell away, and he realized he was wearing only a roughspun night-tunic and a pair of ragged trousers.

_What happened to my armor?_

Once his senses had readjusted to consciousness, Vilkas became aware of the sound of soft snoring coming from the foot of his bed. Swinging his feet off the bed, Vilkas stood up and turned about, hoping to investigate the snoring.

Siri had laid out a bedroll in the small bedroom, only inches away from the freshly fallen snow. How she hadn't frozen to death already was anyone's guess; Vilkas noted that she was sleeping on top of the bedroll, rather than inside of it, and was resting a hand upon the handle of her axe. She still wore her leather armor, which provided no protection from the cold—it left most of her arms and legs exposed. The firelight cast dancing shadows across her face; her war paint had rubbed off, and her soft skin glowed radiantly. Her hair was a bit unkempt, and some of it had fallen across her face, moving gently every time she exhaled.

Vilkas took a step toward her, although he was unsure why; however, his legs were still a bit weak, and he stumbled sideways into the tiny dining table in the corner of the room. Siri's eyes opened wide, and she jumped up, hovering in a battle-crouch, scanning the area for any signs of danger. When her eyes fell upon Vilkas, she started, and her brow furrowed in frustration.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed!"

Vilkas took a step back. He had not expected to be greeted in quite this manner. He frowned at her, and she returned the sentiment, glaring at him.

"I'll stand if I damn well feel like it, whelp," he said. "Now, would you kindly explain to me where my armor went?"

To his surprise, Siri's defiant glare disappeared, and she began to look rather uncomfortable.

"It's in that chest over there," she said simply. "I'll—I'll get it for you. But you should get back in bed; you need rest after what you went through." Vilkas raised an eyebrow, unsure of what she was referring to. A moment later, Siri thrust his armor back into his hands.

"I managed to hammer most of the bent metal plates back into shape," she said quietly. "I'm sorry I took your armor off, but I had to see if you had any other injuries that needed to be attended to." Vilkas looked down at his armor. He would definitely need to pay a visit to Eorlund when they returned to Jorrvaskr.

Siri's manner changed abruptly once again. "You need to get some rest. Don't you recall what happened? You really shouldn't be standing up right now. In fact," she said, producing a healing potion from her satchel, "you need to drink this." She pushed the potion into Vilkas's hands. "I won't take no for an answer." The man glowered—he hated being told what to do—but obediently downed the bitter potion.

"So…what happened?" he asked. "I remember arriving at Valtheim…I chased a bandit across that bridge, but…my memory goes a little fuzzy after that." Siri sighed.

"Can you at least sit down?" she asked, almost pleadingly. Vilkas obliged, figuring he would get more information out of her if he did. Once he was seated, Siri began narrating the events of the evening.

"You've only been asleep for about five hours," she said to him. "I shot down an archer and then followed you across the river; you had already beheaded the fifth bandit and climbed the tower when I reached you. You were fighting the bandit chief, but he had a warhammer…he shattered the bone in your right arm," she said. "You were fading from consciousness…"

"You killed him," Vilkas said. "I thought I was dreaming! You—you shouted him off the tower!" Siri looked at the ground.

"I did," she said softly.

"By the Divines," he whispered.

"You were very badly injured," she continued. "I managed to heal the bone in your arm, and I took off your armor to make sure you hadn't sustained any other injuries…I hoped you wouldn't mind," she said. "I thought you would sleep better in something other than your armor, so once I had healed your wounds, I dressed you and put you in bed to rest properly." At this, Vilkas snorted.

"I haven't rested properly in years," he said. "The beast never sleeps soundly."

Siri frowned and stood up, hands on her hips, glaring down at him. "Well you had best try, wolf, or I'll…have your hide for a new set of armor!"

Normally Vilkas wouldn't have allowed a skinny whelp to order him around, but his body ached, and she seemed as though she meant business. She uncorked another healing potion and handed it to him; he drank it in one gulp and allowed sleep to overcome his weary body.


	15. The Wreck of the Winter War

By the time they left Valtheim, Vilkas felt as good as new. _Maybe there's something to this magic stuff after all_, he thought. Siri had given his arm one last look before she had allowed him to put his armor back on, and the two headed for Windhelm. The tension between the two had lessened noticeably; every once in a while, Siri would comment on the landscape, or the sky, or the weather, and Vilkas, instead of remaining stubbornly silent, would respond with a grunt, or even an occasional comment of his own. Sometimes he would even speak unprompted. If nothing else, it was progress.

They did not stop for the night, instead choosing to use darkness's cover to their advantage. When they finally reached the shore and spotted the wreck, Vilkas crouched down, using his keen senses to scout out the ship.

"Three…no, four," he said. "And one that smells like iron ore. I bet that's Odfel." He continued to stare intently at the ship until the sound of rustling caught his attention.

He turned to his shield-sister, only to find himself face-to-face with a Dark Brotherhood assassin. With a yelp, he leapt backward; he was shocked when she reached up and pulled down the mask covering her face. It was Siri.

"Let me take care of this," she said quietly. "Come with me, but stay back in case there's trouble. I think I can take care of them all before they even know we're here."

Vilkas scowled. "You're an _assassin_?" he asked angrily. Unexpectedly, Siri grinned at him.

"No, of course not. But it turns out someone wanted me dead, and…well, this armor has some pretty cool enchantments on it. I mean, dead assassins don't need their armor anymore, do they?" she asked, almost playfully. Vilkas didn't know what to say; her tone had caught him by surprise and left him at a loss. Fortunately, Siri saved him the trouble by pulling her mask up once more and heading for the shipwreck without a sound. He trailed behind her, unsure of why he was following her orders.

Siri moved swiftly and silently, blending into the night; pulling out a steel dagger, she snuck up behind the bandits one by one, clapping a hand over each man's mouth and silently slitting their throats. Her job was made easier by the fact that the bandits' chief was asleep; she dispatched the woman quickly and left the body there, blood running freely from the wound and staining the bed. Quickly Siri changed back into her leather armor—no need to be frightening poor Odfel unnecessarily—and headed for the prisoner's cell.

Vilkas was resentful of the fact that he hadn't gotten to fight any bandits. _Why is she treating me like a child?_ he wondered, sulking to himself.

At that moment, he heard two sets of footsteps on the deck below. Drawing his sword, he stood ready for a fight; he was disappointed, however, to find that it was Siri escorting Odfel, who thanked his saviors profusely.

They camped on the ship that night, and headed for Shor's Stone at dawn. Having gotten only four hours' sleep, Siri awoke, bleary-eyed, to find Odfel and Vilkas already packing up. Quickly she rose and stowed her bedroll, and the three Nords left the shipwreck behind.

It was a long day's journey down to Shor's Stone; along the way, Siri and Vilkas had to take down several bears and sabre cats, even once glimpsing a troll. Eventually they settled into a formation of sorts: Siri walked ahead, scouting for predators, as her light armor and ability to walk silently made her well suited to the task. Vilkas followed behind with Odfel, hand on his sword, ready to draw his blade at the least indication of danger.

Vilkas was not a talkative man at the best of times, and Odfel did nothing to draw him out of his shell. The Nord talked ceaselessly of his days as a soldier, the women he had been with, and how mining was the most difficult job in the world. Vilkas rolled his eyes, giving an occasional grunt when Odfel prompted him for a response.

Finally Siri spotted Shor's Stone and hurried back to inform her companions.

"It's not far now," she said, glancing up at the sky. "We should be there within the hour." Then she turned back, running ahead once more.

Odfel chuckled suggestively. "Oh, what I wouldn't do to have a girl like that to warm my bed," he muttered to Vilkas. "Does she…you know," he said, making a vulgar gesture that indicated exactly what he meant. Vilkas scowled, repulsed by Odfel's coarse, disrespectful behavior.

"Siri is my shield-sister," he said, attempting to contain his beast's rage. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of her in such a manner." To his surprise, this made Odfel grin knowingly.

"Oh, didn't realize I was encroaching upon your territory. My apologies, friend. But tell me…" he paused, checking to make sure Siri couldn't hear him, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is she good?"

Vilkas shook his head, changing the subject quickly in an attempt to suppress his anger. "Looks like we're here," he said as they crested the hill. The tiny town of Shor's Stone lay before them, and Siri was already speaking with the other inhabitants. Vilkas was not surprised to see that most didn't look overjoyed at Odfel's return; he couldn't wait to be rid of the obnoxious man himself, and was much relieved when Siri informed the townspeople that she needed to head back to Whiterun.

The familiar uncomfortable silence descended once more as the two figures trudged away from Shor's Stone. Darkness had completely settled upon the wilderness, and it wasn't long before Vilkas recommended that they stop for the night.

They stopped in the mountains; Siri guessed they were about halfway to Ivarstead. Vilkas picked out a spot under an overhanging cliff, where they would be protected from any precipitation. Siri was also quick to point out that having their back to a cliff would make it easier to stand watch, as predators and bandits could only approach from one direction.

"I'll take first watch," said Vilkas, not turning to face her and instead looking out into the night. "You look like you could use some sleep." Siri, thinking it best not to argue, laid out her bedroll by the fire and was asleep in short order.


	16. The Monster Within

**A/N:** I must confess that I am rather excited about this chapter, as short as it is. I think it turned out well, although it still doesn't compare to how I see it in my head...

It comes close, though.

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><p>The flames crackled soothingly as late night settled upon the landscape. Vilkas sat with his back against the stone face of the cliff, head leaned back, looking up at the stars. All he could think about was Odfel, and his vulgar words. The man's callousness had made Vilkas's blood boil; but the fact that he was feeling anything at all about Siri was what was truly driving him mad.<p>

_This needs to stop._

The wind shifted, and suddenly Vilkas's body tensed. That scent…he drew his sword, stepping out of the circle of the firelight, searching. He knew that scent. There was a sabre cat somewhere nearby.

From the left, a hulking mass hurled itself upon him, and Vilkas was knocked sideways. His sword slid off into the darkness, leaving him helpless; he searched for the metallic glint in the shadows, but couldn't find it. The sabre cat leapt at him once more, knocking him on his back and sinking its teeth into his arm.

His bellow of pain became a blood-chilling howl as he resorted to his only option. It was the last thing he wanted to do, especially with Siri so close by. Would Kodlak forgive him for breaking their pact?

The sabre cat released his arm, stepping back warily. Vilkas's body began to contort, and he started pulling off his armor. Thick, dark fur sprouted from his shoulders and his back; as his muzzle lengthened and his teeth grew long and sharp, he shut his silver eyes and gave a heart-stopping roar. When his eyes reopened, they were the golden-green eyes of a beast, and he lunged at the sabre cat.

Siri, awakened abruptly by Vilkas's terrifying roar, watched the scene with fear in her eyes. The sabre cat was strong, but it was no match for the werewolf's brutish, bestial strength. Vilkas closed his mouth around the cat's neck, tasting its sweet blood; then, incensed, he threw it roughly against a large pine tree. Substantially weakened by the loss of blood, the cat struggled to right itself, swaying unsteadily; the werewolf took the opportunity, leaping upon his quarry, rending its flesh with his long claws; by the time he was done, there was little recognizable evidence of the sabre cat's existence.

Vilkas's veins ran hot with the thrill of the hunt. Grappling with the wolf in his mind, he turned back to the campsite. Suddenly the heat was extinguished: for there, staring at him in utter terror, was Siri.

Never had Vilkas felt so ashamed in his life, but still a wolf, his shame burned, turning into anger. Attempting to call himself back to his human form, the wolf spoke.

"Don't look at me!" He struggled to form each word; he did not usually speak while in wolf form.

Siri attempted to look away, to appease the beast, but her neck refused to turn. Her deep blue eyes were locked with the beast's green ones, as though she were hypnotized, and she couldn't look away. The beast snarled at her, closing the gap between them in a few steps.

"Don't…look…I am a _monster!_" he bellowed. With his clawed paws he reached forward, grabbing her night-tunic by the collar and hoisting her up into the air.

"A _monster!_ An _abomination!_ Don't you see it?" He slammed her back up against the cliff, teeth bared, the cloth of her nightclothes balled up in his paws. He was trying to show her the beast—trying to make her hate him as much as he hated himself.

Her eyes continued to hold his—she couldn't have looked away, even if she had wanted to. She could see the fear in his eyes, the shame, the confusion. He was not angry at her, but at himself, and Siri could see the battle he waged against himself reflected in his eyes.

Without thinking, Siri reached out toward his face. Her arm was shaking badly, but when she laid her soft hand on his muzzle, it seemed as though the fear evaporated. She caressed his face softly, with a steady hand.

"You're not a monster," she whispered.

Vilkas's eyes widened; shocked, he lowered her to the ground. He stared at his paws for a moment: Siri could feel the self-loathing radiating from his very being. Then he turned swiftly, leapt over the fire, and retreated into the forest.

Siri slumped against the wall, a wave of exhaustion crashing down upon her. Her heart was racing, going too fast; the world began to swim around her, and she slumped over silently, unconscious.


	17. Windhelm

The world was light once more.

Siri's head was swimming as she opened her eyes slowly. Suddenly remembering the events of the previous night, she sat bolt upright.

"Whoa, easy," came a soothing voice.

Her eyes adjusting to the world around her, Siri saw that she was not out in the wilderness, but safely back in Jorrvaskr. She looked around, realizing that she was laid out on Aela's bed. The huntress was seated beside her; she pushed Siri back down onto the bed, pressing a cold compress to her forehead.

"How are you feeling?" Aela asked. Siri rubbed a hand across her eyes.

"Beat," she said simply. "How long have I been here?"

"Vilkas arrived with you early this morning," Aela answered. "You've been unconscious since you got here; I'd say it's been about nine hours at this point, but Vilkas said you'd been out the whole trip back from Ivarstead, as well."

_Vilkas!_

"Is Vilkas okay?" Siri asked, trying not to sound too worried.

"He seemed fine, if a little shaken," replied Aela. "I know he transformed last night—I could smell it on him—but he wouldn't tell me a thing. Just said you had fainted from exhaustion, and that he had brought you back as quickly as he could." The huntress gave Siri an appraising look. "Kodlak says I'm not to pry about what happened until you are back on your feet, but I have to say that I've been very impressed with you so far." Siri was at a loss.

"Thank you," she managed after struggling for a moment. Aela shrugged.

"Now, don't get up. I'm going to go upstairs and get you a big plate of beef. You're very pale—you look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."

The next day, Aela allowed Siri out of bed. She was very well-rested and felt better than she had in days. Hesitating at the threshold of Aela's room, she turned back to the huntress.

"Is there any work that needs to be done?" she asked.

"Well, we did receive word today that a beast has taken up residence in a home up in Eastmarch—at the Brandy-Mug Farm. It's just a wolf, so it shouldn't be taxing by any stretch of the imagination, but gold's gold." Aela pointed out the location on Siri's map; then, without further delay, Siri set off for Eastmarch.

As soon as she stepped out the doors of Jorrvaskr, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She loved her shield-siblings, of course, but right now…Siri needed this time for herself.

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><p>The trip to Eastmarch was relatively uneventful, and it turned out that the beast inhabiting the farmhouse was nothing more than a wolf. Rather than attempt an overnight trek to Whiterun, Siri decided to spend the night at Windhelm's inn.<p>

Snow swirled in the wind as Siri pushed open the gates to Windhelm.

"Excuse me, sir, where might I find lodging for the night?" she asked the guard standing by the gate. The man pointed over her shoulder.

"That's Candlehearth Hall, right there. Elda'll be able to put you up for the night," he said. Siri thanked him and turned, quickly walking into the lower floor of the inn.

The first floor was sparsely populated—there were only two men at the bar, both Stormcloak soldiers—but upstairs, she could hear a bard singing and the low, steady hum of conversation.

"Can I help you, miss?" asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes," she said, "I was hoping to rent a room for the night."

"Of course, dear. That'll be ten septims. I'll show you to your room."

Siri turned to follow the woman down the hall when she felt a hand grab her arm roughly. Pulling out her steel dagger, she turned about to face the man who held onto her.

"Siri? Is that you?"

"I'm sorry…have we met?" she asked, attempting to feign ignorance, but he would have none of it.

"Siri, don't play coy with me," he said. "You know who I am. It's me, Iver." He reeked of mead, so badly that Siri wondered if someone had dunked him in a cask of it. "So you got my note?"

She supposed there was no point in lying at this point. Nevertheless, she didn't feel like speaking with Iver; all she wanted to do was sleep. She jerked her arm away from him.

"Yes, your father gave me your note, Iver," she said coldly. "But all your sorry begging won't change my mind. We are through. We have been through since you let that...that _bitch_ warm your bed. There is nothing else to be said."

Infuriated, Siri stormed down the hall to her room, pushed the wardrobe in front of the door, and lay down, ignoring Iver's desperate pleas for her attention. Eventually Iver gave up, and as silence settled on the hallway, Siri gave into sleep.


	18. Gratitude

When Siri awoke the next morning, the inn was deserted; she was glad that Iver hadn't done something foolish—she would have hated trying to sneak over him if he'd fallen asleep outside her door. Leaving an extra septim on the counter for Elda, Siri braced herself for the cold and walked out into Windhelm, bound for Whiterun.

The first person to approach Siri when she entered Jorrvaskr that afternoon was, surprisingly, Skjor. The man had never really spoken to her at any length; in fact, the only people she ever saw him talk to consistently were Kodlak and Aela.

"I've heard that you're a force to be reckoned with," he said, looking down at Siri with an expression that was impossible to read. Taken slightly aback, she answered cautiously.

"I have done as my shield-siblings and the Harbinger have asked."

"I have some work for you. Meet me in the courtyard at midnight. We will speak more then."

As Skjor walked away, Siri noticed Farkas sitting at the dining table. Suddenly realizing just how hungry she was, she decided to join him.

"Well, if it isn't Siri," said the hulking Nord with a smile. "I haven't seen you in days. In fact, the last time I saw you was when Vilkas crashed in the door with you flung over his shoulder."

"And you didn't even have the decency to say hello?" Siri teased. Farkas tousled her hair affectionately, and Siri leaned her head wearily against his shoulder. "How is Vilkas doing?" she asked sleepily.

"He's…fine," Farkas said. "He's been mostly staying in his room since you guys got back. I think he…I think his head is fuzzy. He even forgets to eat unless I bring him his dinner. Speaking of which…"

Before her shield-brother could rise, Siri stood up and began loading a plate with food. "I'll take him his meal," she said. "I should thank him." Farkas shrugged and went back to his meal as she headed downstairs to the living quarters.

When she reached Vilkas's door, Siri knocked. She was surprised to hear Vilkas yell through the door.

"Farkas, I have told you a hundred times if I've told you once. I don't want any food!"

Unable to control her anger, Siri pushed the doors open forcefully. "Well I'm not Farkas, and I say that you had better eat, or else I'll get him to force-feed it to you."

A moment later Siri blushed and looked away. Vilkas was sitting on his bed, wearing only a pair of trousers. His back was propped against the wall, and he held what appeared to be a brand-new copy of _Racial Phylogeny_ in his hands.

"If you've seen my brother after his transformation, I don't see why you can't face me now. For the love of Talos, at least I'm wearing pants," he snapped. She put the plate down on one of the tables before turning back to him.

"That's an awful book you're reading," she said. "It's so racist."

"I am well aware of that, whelp," he said. She noticed that he refused to meet her eyes. "I am not reading it because I agree with it." Her eyes wandered to his nightstand, and she noticed several other books—there was a copy of _2920, Rain's Hand, v4_, as well as _The Exodus_. She also noticed a few Restoration spell tomes, although she couldn't tell which ones they were.

"Are you…trying to learn Restoration magic?" she asked.

Unexpectedly, Vilkas's face turned scarlet and he stood up. Siri couldn't help but notice the contours of his lean, well-muscled chest; the flickering candlelight only accentuated his warrior's body.

"No," he said, quickly shuffling the books onto his bookshelf. "Just some light reading." Sensing his embarrassment, Siri turned quickly to take her leave before hesitating at the door.

"By the way…thank you for bringing me back to Jorrvaskr."

Vilkas approached her; his proximity to her made her shudder and step back, although some part of her felt inclined to step forward and close the gap.

Without another word he shut the double doors in her face, leaving her alone with her very confused thoughts.


	19. Gallows Rock

**A/N: **Hey, thanks for the love, y'all! I hope I can continue to write stuff you enjoy!

* * *

><p>"This is a chance for you to become so much more than you already are," said Skjor. "It's been a long time since we've had a heart like yours among our numbers."<p>

When he stepped aside, Siri tensed for a moment. There, standing across the stone basin, was a werewolf!

"I would hope," Skjor said pointedly, "that you'd recognize Aela, even in this form. She has agreed to be your forebear." The werewolf looked straight at Siri, making her shudder.

_Soon that will be you, too…_

Skjor raised Aela's arm over the basin, quickly slitting the wolf's wrist. To Siri's surprise, the wolf didn't make a sound; instead she watched intently as the whelp stood and gazed into the basin.

She remembered Vilkas's transformation, remembering the guilt and the anger that he felt over his beast form. She remembered the desperate look in his eyes.

"_Don't you see it?"_

_No, I don't._

"_A monster! An abomination!"_

_No, you're not!_

"_Don't look at me!"_

_But I…I can't help it…by the Divines, I can't take my eyes off you!_

She reached down, her fingers dipping into the blood. She brought up a palmful, watching as the candlelight flickered. The liquid glistened; she listened to the sound of the blood as it slipped through her fingers, dripping back into the basin.

_I can help you._

"_Don't…look…"_

_Let me help you!_

She brought her hand to her lips. As the blood hit her tongue, she tasted the metallic essence…but there was something more. Something…sinister.

_Maybe now you will trust me…_

* * *

><p>Siri awoke on a hillside, stark naked, head pounding.<p>

_Why do I always wake up in strange places without my armor on?_

Abruptly she realized that there was someone standing over her. She sprang to her feet, attempting to cover herself, until she realized that the strange figure was Aela.

The huntress tossed her the armor she had lost. "Here's your armor. Your first transformation was rough—you gave us almost as much trouble as Farkas did at his first turning."

"What happened?" asked Siri as she attempted to buckle her armor.

"You were born into the pack, sister," Aela replied. "I almost envy you. The first time is always the most…_intense_."

There was so much to take in. The world swam dizzyingly before her, awash in bright colors, odd sounds, and smells she had never experienced before. Attempting to be strong, she turned back to Aela.

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

"There are a bunch of Silver Hand holed up in this fort," the huntress answered. "We're going to wipe them out. Skjor has gone ahead to scout it out—we should go in now. Hopefully he won't have gotten too far ahead of us."

The further the two women got into Gallows Rock, the more worried Aela became.

"I don't know where he is…we should have found him by now," she said after they dispatched yet another group of Silver Hand. Then she froze.

"What is it, Aela?" asked Siri.

"We're close, I can smell him…Krev the Skinner. Watch out for him."

They threw open the door, and time seemed to slow. Here Siri buried her axe in a man's throat; there she split open a man's head. Aela rained deadly arrows upon the Silver Hand in the room, focusing as much as she could on Krev.

The Skinner, meanwhile, made a beeline for Siri and took her by surprise, landing a devastating blow to her arm with his battle axe. Immediately she dropped her shield, summoning the fast healing spell to her hands; the wound closed over, but her healing had cost her precious time. Quickly she dodged out of the way of another powerful attack, then popped up, a dagger in hand, and buried it in Krev's unprotected side.

Krev's howl of pain was drowned out by another cry—one of horror and despair. Forgetting herself for a moment, Siri spun around, searching for the source.

She found Aela sobbing, hunched over a body on the floor. Siri recognized the armor, but it was the man's scent that allowed her to identify him.

_Skjor._

Anger at Aela's despair lit a fire in Siri's heart, and she spun back around to Krev. The man had pulled her dagger out of his side and before she could do anything, brought it down into her left shoulder. Blinding pain clouded her mind, and the sudden inability to control her arm terrified her, but her anger kept her going. Giving a blood-curdling battle-cry, she watched in satisfaction as Krev stumbled backward in fear before landing the fatal blow with her axe.

As the Skinner's head rolled across the floor, Siri dropped her axe and pulled the dagger from her shoulder. Unable to manipulate her left arm, she summoned her magic into her right hand; after a few long moments of healing, her arm became functional once more. She turned back to Aela.

The huntress had gotten off her knees and regained her composure. "The bastards! Somehow they managed to kill Skjor…" Siri could see the tears behind her eyes. "He…he should not have come here without a shield-sibling. Now go—I'll take care of this. Leave him to me. Tell the others at Jorrvaskr."

Siri turned to the door. As she walked away, she could hear Aela crying.


	20. Guilt

In the days following Skjor's death, Jorrvaskr was unusually silent. There was no brawling, no quarreling—the great mead hall was filled with Companions going silently about their business. Aela hadn't been seen since her return; she had locked herself in her room and not emerged. Kodlak, too, seemed to have retreated into his quarters.

Siri sat in her room, counting out her gold. She needed five thousand septims to buy her own home in the city, and given the guilt she was feeling over Skjor's death, she felt it necessary that she get away from Jorrvaskr.

With a sigh, she swept her coins back into the bulging coin purse and stood up. She was walking across the hallway when Kodlak's voice broke the oppressive silence.

"Siri."

She turned to face the Harbinger, and by the look on his face knew that he had something serious he wished to speak to her about. She bowed her head and followed Kodlak back to his quarters. He closed the doors behind them, gesturing for Siri to take a seat. They sat in silence for a few minutes; Siri was unable to look Kodlak in the eye, and couldn't manage to summon any words at all. Finally, the Harbinger broke the silence.

"I hope your first transformation was not too…eventful," he said. Siri flinched with the realization that her new status had not gone unnoticed, that the Harbinger—and surely Vilkas and Farkas as well—would be able to smell the difference. "I will not pry into your reasons for accepting the beastblood," he added, sensing his companion's discomfort.

Suddenly, Siri felt all the raw emotion she had been suppressing bubbling up from her core. Kodlak deserved the truth—he had trusted her, and she had let him down, allowed one of his closest council to be killed…

"I'm so sorry, Harbinger," she said. "I…Skjor and Aela, they offered it to me and I couldn't refuse. When we got to Gallows Rock, I had no idea…"

"Of course, my dear," Kodlak said, placing a hand upon her shoulder. "I have spoken to Aela about this entire incident already. She has told me all about your transformation, and what happened at Gallows Rock."

"We fought so hard," Siri said, looking at the ground sheepishly. "But…we didn't get there in time. Krev…he had…" Her voice broke with emotion and she covered her face with her hands, not wanting Kodlak to see the tears in her eyes. "If I had known what would happen, I never would have accepted this…" her voice trailed off; she was not sure how she should finish that sentence. Was it a gift? Was it a curse?

The two sat in silence for a few moments before Kodlak spoke again.

"I assure you, my child, that you deserve none of the guilt you feel now. It was Skjor's decision to charge into Gallows Rock alone; it was a joint decision between Skjor and Aela to involve you in their…hunting. You did what you could, and no one could ask for more than that. Even Companions can be overwhelmed by numbers, and from what Aela has told me, this bandit den was a particularly fearsome crowd."

_Bandits?_

So Kodlak thought they had been bandit hunting.

The old man sighed, standing up. "I just wanted to clear your conscience, Siri. I know that you have been suffering these past few days. You may go; I have nothing further to say at the moment." Siri nodded and turned, opening the double doors and walking out into Jorrvaskr once more.

* * *

><p>Late that afternoon Siri sat in the courtyard, taking deep gulps from a mug of mead. None of the other Companions had ventured into the sun in days, so when a figure sat down next to her on the bench, Siri started.<p>

"You're a fool," he said. It was Vilkas. She couldn't believe his nerve. He had the gall to come to her now and insult her?

"What do you want, Vilkas?" she asked coldly, staring hard into her mead.

"I don't care what Aela and Skjor told you. The blood is a curse. You're a fool for accepting it."

Angrily, Siri stood up, bumping the table and causing mead to slosh everywhere. Slightly drunk, she turned to Vilkas, standing over him and looking down with anger in her eyes.

"How _dare_ you come here now. You don't think I feel guilty enough? You don't think…"

"I don't think you thought it through," he said, standing up angrily. "There is no reason on Nirn why you should have accepted the blood. It is a gift for the weak. A true Companion should be able to claim victory without the need for such tricks."

Siri turned away angrily. She did not need to get into another brawl with Vilkas right now. She stormed away to the Underforge.

Farkas approached his brother quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Brother, what is going on?" he asked.

"She's a fool," he growled, breaking away from his brother and disappearing into the mead hall.

* * *

><p>Siri heard the stone door of the Underforge open and shut as someone else entered. She sat, back to the door, facing the basin in which Aela's beastblood stood still, glimmering in the dim light.<p>

"If that's you, Vilkas," she began, only to hear a familiar soft, good-natured chuckle.

"I still don't understand why he keeps talking to you if he hates you so much," said Farkas, joining Siri on the ground. Then he became serious once more. "But you did accept the blood—I can smell it on you. You are a wolf now, too."

"Yes, Farkas," she said. "And I regret that decision more and more with each passing moment." She sighed. "Everything is so…foggy. I am quick to anger now, where I didn't used to be, and…I can smell blood, all the time. The blood of my Companions, the blood of animals and enemies…I have this urge to _kill_."

Farkas nodded. "It's really confusing at first," he said. "It gets a little clearer over time, as you get used to it." Siri nodded silently, staring absently at the basin. A few minutes passed; finally, she spoke.

"Farkas, why does Vilkas hate me?" The hulking man turned his head to look at the small woman beside him. Heaving a great sigh, he shrugged.

"I don't know, Siri. I have been trying to figure it out, but Vilkas is good at keeping secrets. There are times when even _I _don't know what he's thinking." He patted her sympathetically on the shoulder before standing up and exiting the underforge.

* * *

><p>Vilkas was alone in his room, a book in one hand, and a warm, glowing ball of light in the other. With vicious teeth, he bit down on his arm, drawing blood; a few moments later, the wound disappeared as the magic in Vilkas's hands repaired the damage.<p>

A loud knock on the door caused him to drop the book. He quickly pushed it off the end of the bed and allowed the magic in his hand to dissipate before answering.

"Come in."

Farkas entered the room, shutting the doors softly behind him.

"Brother, we need to talk."


	21. Jergen

He was twenty, a man freshly married; with his young wife, Anja, he had settled down in a small cabin in the mountains west of Helgen. He had built it with his own two hands to provide his wife with someplace safe to live, and, proud of his accomplishment, named it Pinewatch.

The young man's name was Jergen.

Soon after their marriage, Jergen left Anja at Pinewatch to search for ways to earn money. After bumbling around Falkreath for a while, he traveled north, to the city of Whiterun, to try his hand as a Companion.

He had only been gone a month and a half when a courier arrived at Jorrvaskr with a note from Anja. She asked him to return home, telling him she was pregnant. Jergen was reluctant to leave his life as a Companion; nevertheless, he departed for Falkreath Hold.

Months passed; at the turn of autumn, Anja gave birth—not to one baby, as she had expected, but to twins: identical baby boys, given the names Farkas and Vilkas by their parents. The twins were the light of Anja's life, but Jergen still longed for something more. Before the boys were even a year old, he headed back to Whiterun to return to the Companions: he wanted glory and honor, not to chase a couple of snot-nosed brats around the woods until he was too old, and his opportunities had disappeared. It happened one night after the boys had been put to bed: he had pulled out his traveling satchel, filled it with supplies, and walked out the door. Even at Jorrvaskr, though, he didn't find the escape he wanted; couriers arrived every week or so from Falkreath. Anja was determined to keep her husband from forgetting about his offspring.

One week, however, the letter didn't arrive. At first, Jergen dismissed it as nothing. Perhaps the courier had been delayed by weather, or set upon by a bear; or perhaps Anja had given up writing to him. As the weeks began to pile up, though, Jergen began to worry; finally, he sent a courier to Pinewatch with a note for his wife. The courier returned a few days later with terrible news.

Pinewatch, he said, had been ransacked, and dust had begun to gather. There was no sign of his wife or children, although there were dried blood spatters on the walls. It seemed that Anja and the twins had been missing for quite some time—and not necessarily of their own free will.

Jergen immediately departed for Falkreath. Perhaps the Jarl would have heard something.

All the Jarl had for Jergen was the name of a cave in the far northwest of the hold—a place called Sunderstone Gorge—from which strange sounds and odd lights had been seen. Becoming desperate, he headed for Sunderstone Gorge alone. The day he arrived there was the twins' second birthday. He would never forget what he had seen inside that horrible cave.

There had been necromancers and fire mages everywhere; it was all he could do not to get killed. He had just taken care of the mages in a long, narrow room with a swinging spike wall when he heard it—crying.

Jergen raced up the stairs toward the sound, but it stopped abruptly. Bursting through a wooden door, he was immediately set upon by a skeleton being controlled by yet another necromancer. He dispatched the necromancer quickly, then turned to the cages on the right-hand wall.

There were two cages; Vilkas was imprisoned in one, and Farkas in the other. They were emaciated and covered in blood. Quickly, Jergen broke the locks on each door, freeing his sons.

_Where is your mother?_ He had asked. Farkas had broken into tears, and Vilkas had pointed solemnly at the ground between the cages.

It was a corpse, hard to make out in the dark. Jergen knelt down on the petroleum-soaked floor and examined the body.

It had clearly been used in some unholy, necromantic rituals; but was it really Anja? He examined the finger. No ring. Turning around, he found himself staring at the proof.

For there, on the table, sat the head of Anja—once the wife of Jergen, the proud mother of Farkas and Vilkas.

Without a word, Jergen dragged Anja's body into the center of the room and retrieved her head, positioning upon her neck once more. He picked up the twins and carried them to the doorway of the room.

_Goodbye, Anja. I'm sorry._

He dropped his flaming torch, then closed the doors behind him. By the time Anja's body had been reduced to ashes, Jergen and the boys were long gone.


	22. Doubt

**A/N:** This chapter is super short...but I didn't really like having it attached to anything else.

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><p>Vilkas stood, staring warily at his brother. Such a gross invasion of his privacy, and all for Farkas to ask him questions…about <em>her<em>…

"I just want to know, Vilkas. She's been here for a while now, but you still don't like her."

He turned away from his twin angrily, staring at his bookshelf.

"I don't trust her, brother," he managed.

"But Vilkas," said Farkas, confused, "she's saved your life! She's stood at your side as a shield-sister! What else do you need to know about her before you'll trust her?"

Frustrated, Vilkas pulled a worn journal off the shelf and threw it on the floor between them. "Remember this?" he hissed. "Remember Jergen?" Farkas was taken aback.

"Vilkas, I know our father wasn't a perfect man. I've read the journal too. But he left because he felt guilty—you know, about our mother, and what happened."

"He left," snarled Vilkas, "because he sought power and glory. He _left_," Vilkas spat venomously, "because his _family_ kept getting in the way. And what of Siri? How do we know she won't do the same?"

Farkas's eyes widened.

"Siri would never do that," he said. "She's our shield-sister. She cares about us!"

"Well I don't care about _her_," Vilkas growled, pushing his brother into the hallway and slamming the doors shut behind him.


	23. Discovered

_Breezehome_.

It wasn't much inside; mostly just a large, empty first floor, and a large second floor with a big bed. Lydia's room seemed to be the only one that was fully furnished.

But it was home.

It had been a few days since she had purchased the home as an escape from the gloom hanging over Jorrvaskr, and a few days since Aela had come to pay her a visit. She knew the location of a Silver Hand leader who was in possession of a fragment of Wuuthrad; in addition to retrieving the fragment and killing the Silver Hand leader, Aela wanted Siri to retrieve some information on the Silver Hand's plans. Siri had reluctantly agreed.

But tonight, she thought, was for her. No interruptions. She had done as Aela had bidden; she had earned herself a night of rest. She lay down on her bed and was soon fast asleep.

It was not long after when Lydia approached Siri, gently shaking her awake.

"My Thane," she said. "Your Companion Farkas from Jorrvaskr has come to see you. He says Kodlak is looking for you."

"Kodlak?" she asked, pulling on her armor.

_Oh no…_

As she walked down the stairs, she saw Farkas standing at her door. He looked up when she appeared, his face serious, but said nothing.

They walked to Jorrvaskr in silence, and upon her arrival, Siri left his side, heading straight for Kodlak's quarters. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

"You wished to see me, Harbinger?" she asked, a feeling of shame washing over her as the old man's eyes met hers.

"Yes. Have a seat, please." She took her seat silently, and Kodlak continued. "I hear you've been busy of late," he said.

Siri blanched. What could she say? He knew. She could not claim this as an honorable venture; instead, she spoke the truth. "Aela and I work to avenge Skjor's death," she said, her voice shaking slightly. Kodlak nodded.

"Your hearts are full of grief—Aela's especially so. My own heart weeps at the loss of Skjor; but his death has been avenged already. You have taken more lives than honor demanded." He heaved a sigh. "Young one, have you heard the story of how we came to be werewolves?"

"Skjor spoke of it as a blessing from Hircine. But Vilkas…" she hesitated, and for a moment thought she saw a knowing twinkle in Kodlak's eyes. "Vilkas said I was a fool for accepting the beastblood. He said it was a gift for the weak, and that a true Companion would not need to resort to such trickery."

"That sounds about right," said Kodlak. "But of course, as in all things, the matter is more complicated than your fellows have let on."

"What is the truth, then?" she asked, looking earnestly into Kodlak's eyes. The old man shook his head.

"The Companions are nearly five thousand years old," he said. "But this matter of the beastblood has troubled us for the past few hundred. One of my predecessors, a good but short-sighted man, made a pact with a coven of witches—if we agreed to hunt in the name of their lord Hircine, we would be granted great power. My predecessor did not believe the change would be permanent; but we had been deceived."

"Aela and Skjor—they didn't think it was bad," Siri said, trying to ascertain more about the situation.

"Of course, some take more strongly to the blood than others," said Kodlak. "I know that Skjor looked forward to hunting with Hircine in the afterlife. But as for me, I wish to join my ancestors in Sovngarde when I die. I fear that, tainted as I am, I will not be able to enter Sovngarde upon my death."

Siri sat in silence for a moment before speaking once more. "Is there anything we can do about it?"

Kodlak smiled. "I believe there is, my child. And that is why I have called you here. You see, our cure is not without some measure of…poetic justice for those who cursed us. I need you, Siri, to travel to Glenmoril Coven and bring back the heads of the Glenmoril witches."

Siri nodded, her brow furrowed. "Am I to do this alone?" she asked.

"You will have no shield-sibling for this task," Kodlak affirmed. "But as long as you are honorable and courageous, you will return to us. I have faith in you, young one," he said with a smile.


	24. For Siri

He was the last person she expected to see at the doors of Jorrvaskr, but there he was, plain as day.

"Iver? What are you doing here? How…how did you find me?"

The other Companions in the dining hall—Farkas, Ria, Njada, and Athis—gathered around, listening as the stranger spoke.

"Siri, I'm afraid I didn't make the best impression when we saw each other in Windhelm—"

"You were drunk, Iver," she said flatly. Her eyes were cold; she glared at him, wishing for all the world he would leave and never come back.

"Do you know what it's like to live in sorrow? To know that because of one mistake you made, the woman you love won't even look you in the eye?" He took her hand in his.

For a moment, Siri froze; she remembered the first time Iver had held her hand—it had been the day back in Falkreath that she had gotten her first kiss. Her resolve wavered for a split second.

_Smack!_

A resounding slap echoed around the mead hall as Siri jerked her hand from his and struck him across the face.

"You lost your chance, Iver," she said, tears in her eyes. She did not notice that Vilkas had joined the group of spectators. "You lost your chance when you…" her voice faltered. "Please, just leave. Now. Haven't you caused me enough pain already?"

"I won't leave without you, Siri," he said. "I love you, and I always have. That night…I made a mistake, darling! Can't you find it in your heart to let it go?"

_Darling_, he called her. She flinched at the endearment, wanted to slap him once more. She opened her mouth again, but found herself preempted by another.

"She asked you to leave," Vilkas said, attempting to hold his anger in check. Siri, surprised by his words, could find none of her own and remained silent. She looked at Farkas in confusion; Farkas, in turn, was gazing intently at his brother, a peculiar look on his face.

"Yeah?" said Iver, turning toward Vilkas with a nasty smile on his face. "And who are you?"

"My name is of little consequence," Vilkas replied sharply. "What matters is that a Companion has asked you to leave Jorrvaskr. You'd do well to oblige."

Iver turned angrily back to Siri. "So this is the kind of man you take to your bed now, Siri?" he asked. "This…brute?" He looked at Vilkas with a sneer.

The moment she heard the word leave Iver's lips, her body tensed up, and all she could do was watch Vilkas's rage begin to boil over.

"Brute, am I?" he bellowed. "You have no idea, milk drinker."

The dark-haired Nord launched himself at Iver, knocking the Stormcloak to the ground. Although he remained in his human form, Vilkas's beastblood was running hot. He was beating on Iver—two, three, four punches to his face; then, lifting his knee from the smaller man's chest, he gripped the front of his tunic, lifting him into the air and slamming him against a column.

"How's this for a brute, eh, Stormcloak?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper.

Unexpectedly, Vilkas lowered Iver toward the ground; the smaller man's face shone with relief in anticipation of standing upright once more.

The relief was short-lived, however, as Vilkas tossed him into the doors of Jorrvaskr like a ragdoll. Iver hit the floor with a heavy thud; he struggled against the pain in an attempt to right himself and looked around for Siri, but she seemed to have fled.

Vilkas set his heavy foot down on Iver's chest, pinning the rebel to the floor. "It seems as though you have projected your own shortcomings onto our dear Siri," he said, grabbing Iver's tunic once more and lifting him up to eye level. Iver's feet dangled several inches off the floor. "But she deserves better than you," Vilkas snarled, so softly that only Farkas, with his heightened werewolf senses, could hear him.

"Oh, like you?" Iver replied mockingly.

_Like you? You, the monster?_

Vilkas's hands weakened, and he set Iver down on the wood floor once more. Farkas, sensing something was wrong, stepped forward.

"I think you'd better leave," he said quietly to Iver. The man took one last look around the mead hall, and, unable to locate Siri, obliged with a sneer.

The crowd dispersed, and Farkas hurried after his brother, who had retreated in shame to his quarters.

"Brother," said Farkas, closing the doors to Vilkas's room. "What is going on with you?"

Vilkas sat on his bed, staring at his hands in the flickering firelight.

"He's right."


	25. Truth

Siri ran.

_How did he find me?_

She ran southwest, across the sprawling plains of Whiterun, past the mammoth herds, skirting the mountains. She wanted to leave Iver behind, to escape to a place where he wouldn't find her. The man didn't seem to understand that all she wanted was for him to disappear.

As nightfall set in, Siri approached a small cabin in the woods. She looked at her map.

"Hunter's Rest," she mumbled, looking up. Sure enough, a few hunters were hanging about. She approached, and the nearest one, a hulking Redguard, stood up.

"Hello there," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm Cyrus."

"I'm Siri," she replied, taking his hand.

"And…who's your friend, there?" Cyrus asked, gesturing over her shoulder. Siri turned, terrified that Iver had followed her out of the city.

It was not Iver, but Farkas. Her face relaxed into a relieved smile.

"This is Farkas," she said. "We are Companions."

"Ah, from Jorrvaskr!" exclaimed Cyrus. "Well please, please, we have some extra space if you'd like to roll out a bedroll. It's a small little cabin, but you're more than welcome to spend the night here. Besides," he added somberly, voice lowered, "we think we've heard a dragon's call in the distance. The more people we have here, the easier it will be to finish the damn thing off if it comes too close."

Siri blanched at the mention of a dragon; fortunately the descending night and her already pale Nord complexion meant that the Redguard didn't notice. Farkas, however, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Night had fallen completely when Farkas found Siri sitting on a small, rocky outcropping just east of the cabin. He joined her, and the two sat in silence for a while before Farkas broke the silence.

"Vilkas doesn't hate you," he said softly.

"I don't know what to make of him," Siri sighed, shaking her head. "I just want him to trust me. I want him to see me as a shield-sister, not as someone to be kept at arm's length. Sometimes he tells me to stay away, to leave him alone. Sometimes he comes to _me_, and speaks to _me_, only to…call me a fool!" She turned to the Nord beside her. "I can't tell what's going on in his head, Farkas, and it's driving me mad!" Farkas smiled in spite of his friend's confusion.

"Do you know how we came to be Companions, Vilkas and I?" he asked. "Our father Jergen raised us at Jorrvaskr. When we were very young, a bunch of necromancers kidnapped us—and our mother—from our home. They killed her, and they were going to kill us, too. But Jergen came and rescued us." He saw the shock on Siri's face; she reached out, laying a hand on his arm, and Farkas continued. "We were not yet five when he left to fight in the Great War. I think Jergen felt guilty about our mother's death, but I know Vilkas disagrees with me. He thinks Jergen was after glory, and that we were standing in his way. Either way, Jergen was killed in the fighting. Kodlak and Tilma…well, they raised us after that."

"So…Vilkas thinks your father sought glory. And…he thinks that is my motivation, too?"

"I think," answered Farkas carefully, "that his concern extends deeper than that. But it is not my place to say any more than that."

Siri sighed, frustrated with Farkas's cryptic answer.

"Do you know why I joined the Companions?" she asked.

Farkas looked at her, curious. "No…I remember you fighting with us at Pelagia Farm. Next thing I knew, you were wailing on Vilkas in the courtyard. Then Kodlak said you were a new blood, and that we were shield-siblings."

Siri leaned her head against Farkas's shoulder. "I joined to find family," she said. "My da…passed. Recently. It's why I returned to Skyrim—I had to say goodbye. I lost my brother years ago, and my ma died giving birth to me. I was all alone in the world, until I came to Jorrvaskr." Farkas nodded.

"Many Companions join to find family," he said. "They are the only family Vilkas and I can remember." Silence fell again after he spoke.

"Do you know why I took the beastblood?" Siri asked abruptly.

Farkas jerked, seemingly taken off guard by this question. He turned to face her with an odd look in his eyes.

"Why?"

Siri sat up, and stared at the ground resolutely. "Vilkas never told you what happened that night—the night he brought me back to Jorrvaskr." It was not a question, but Farkas shook his head anyway. "I was asleep for the beginning, but…he woke me with a roar. Vilkas—he became a beast." She closed her eyes, leaning her head back as she spoke. "He wouldn't have done it, but I could see his sword glimmering in the underbrush. I think the cat had disarmed him. He tore the thing to pieces, and then turned on me." Farkas stiffened, but Siri laid a soothing hand on his arm.

"Farkas," she said, "I took the blood because that night…what your brother said…" she trailed off. "He thinks he is a monster," she whispered. "He hated himself that night—I could see it in his eyes. He was trying to make me see it too, but…I didn't. All I saw was Vilkas. I took the blood because I thought maybe…maybe he would trust me. I thought maybe I could help him."

Farkas was silent and still for quite some time. Finally he laid a massive hand on Siri's shoulder.

"Thank you for telling me this," he said. "Your story…I think I understand now."

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><p>They rose early the next morning. Although Farkas wanted to travel with Siri on whatever business Kodlak had sent her on, she would not defy Kodlak's wishes.<p>

"He said I was to do this alone, Farkas. I feel that I must." She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "Besides, someone needs to stay back to defend Jorrvaskr! What if Iver came back, hmm?" she asked, eyebrows raised playfully.

By the time she reached Glenmoril Coven, the sun was almost at its zenith. She found the witches to be relatively easy to deal with; each Hagraven was off in its own chamber of the cave system, allowing her to fight them individually and giving her a chance to heal herself fully before taking on the next one. She left Glenmoril with five witch heads, just as Kodlak had asked, and headed immediately back toward Whiterun.


	26. An Admission

**A/N:** Wow, so many reviews! I appreciate y'all telling me what you think :)

I hope you enjoy this chapter. I have waited so long to write it...I definitely finished it while I was washing dishes tonight :P

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><p>It was dark but for the ball of light swirling in his hand. He didn't move; he merely sat, staring at the endlessly swirling magic in his palm.<p>

He heard his door open and shut, and became aware of a familiar presence at his side.

"What do you want, Farkas?" he asked, not even bothering to conceal his magic.

"What are you doing?" asked Farkas, momentarily distracted by the odd light in his brother's hand.

"It's Restoration magic," said Vilkas quietly.

"So you _do_ love her."

It was as though Farkas had stabbed his brother in the rear with a red-hot poker. His twin leapt off the bed, the magic dissipating from his hand at once. He stood, seething, anger in his eyes.

"What do you want, Farkas?" he snarled. "Or did you just come here to rub salt in open wounds?"

"Why won't you admit that you care for her?" Farkas asked pointedly. "It's painfully obvious, even to me."

At this, Vilkas lost control. Unable to reign in his anger, he began breathing heavily; it was all he could do to hold back a transformation. When he looked back at his brother, it was through the beast's eyes.

"Why would she ever love someone like me? A _monster_?" he roared, rage clouding his mind. Farkas placed his hands on his brother's shoulders, squeezing hard, trying to ground him, as Vilkas continued to speak. "You didn't see it—you didn't see the _terror_ in her eyes when I tore that sabre cat apart in front of her. You didn't see the fear when I picked her up, lifted her off the ground, _slammed her against the cliff_. You can't know, brother. I am an obscenity. I will _never_ be worthy of…of _her_…"

Farkas watched as the beast receded from his brother's eyes. Vilkas looked away in shame, and Farkas could smell his tears.

"She…reached out to me," he said, his voice barely a whisper, wavering as he fought back the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. "While I was a beast, and held her in the air. She reached out and laid her hand on my snout…"

"She doesn't think you're a monster, Vilkas," said Farkas.

"I know, brother. And that…" his voice cracked, "that is how I know I will never deserve her affections."


	27. Driftshade Refuge

**A/N:** Y'all make me happy. Look, I wrote this just for you!

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><p>The morning sun was just cresting the horizon when Siri reached the western watchtower on the sprawling plains of Whiterun. The sack of witch heads thudded heavily against her back with every step, and she was exhausted from the trek back to Whtierun…but something told her that she needed to get back to Jorrvaskr as quickly as possible, so she continued to run.<p>

As she pushed open the gate into the city, she found herself stopped by a guard.

"You're that new Companion, right?" he asked. She nodded, hoping to Talos that he wasn't going to make a crack about her fetching mead. "You'd better get back up to Jorrvaskr," he said, "I think there's been some trouble up there."

Her heart stopped for a moment. Dropping the sack of witch heads, she sprinted up the steps by the guards' barracks, past the Battle-Borns' house, past the Temple of Kynareth…the same route she had walked countless times, now, except that something was different.

Aela and Torvar were standing outside, crouched over what looked like the bodies of fallen bandits. She approached Torvar, shock evident upon her face.

"Torvar…what happened?"

"It was the Silver Hand…they finally had the nerve to attack Jorrvaskr. We got most of them, but I think a few stragglers made it out…"

Siri ran past him, throwing her body against the heavy doors, and found herself confronted by a horrifying sight inside. She had very little time to process it, however, as an angry figure stormed up to her.

"Where have you been?" asked Vilkas, his voice low, shaking with barely-checked rage.

"I…Kodlak, he asked me to…"

"Well, I hope whatever he asked you to do was important, because it means you weren't here to defend him!"

"What happened?" she asked timidly.

"The Silver Hand finally found enough courage to attack Jorrvaskr…" Vilkas said. "We…fought them off, but…the old man…Kodlak, he's…dead."

The last word caught Siri like a blow to the chest. She fell to her knees, unable to breathe.

Sure enough, there was Kodlak—his body stripped of armor and bearing many nasty wounds. Farkas was sitting cross-legged beside the Harbinger, as was Njada; their sorrow was apparent.

"There's more, isn't there?" Siri asked when she had finally regained her composure.

Vilkas swallowed hard. "They made off with all our fragments of Wuuthrad," he said. "But you and I are going to reclaim them. We will bring the battle to their chief camp. There will be none left living to tell their stories! Only songs of Jorrvaskr will be sung. We will avenge Kodlak, and they will know terror before the end!"

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><p>All she could see of Driftshade Refuge upon their approach was a tiny stone outcropping from the snow. Notching a poisoned arrow to her bow, she laid low the single sentry outside before getting closer.<p>

Werewolf heads on pikes…it made her sick. She could hear Vilkas's breath catch in his chest at the sight, and wondered what he was thinking.

_If you're not careful, that could be you, or…_

She didn't allow herself to finish that thought. Instead, she opened the door, and she and Vilkas stepped inside the last refuge of the Silver Hand.

There was nobody in the first chamber, so Siri pressed forward, Vilkas close behind, his new greatsword drawn. They soon came across two Silver Hand; disregarding the staircase, Siri leapt down on top of the first man; he died instantly as his head struck the floor. The second man charged at her, but was no match for her axe, and she felled him quickly.

A roar from behind her caused Siri to turn; it was only by pure luck that she managed to duck in time. A third man had come running in from a side room, swinging his sword in a move that was clearly intended to take Siri's head off.

A moment later, there was a pained cry. Siri looked up: the man flailed helplessly as Vilkas impaled him so violently that he lifted the unfortunate man off the ground. The body fell to the floor, and Siri and Vilkas disappeared into the next room.

As they descended through the dungeon, they encountered more Silver Hand, but none of their enemies posed a significant threat. Water dripped from the ceilings; the halls were dank, lit only by sparse torches, and Siri could not wait to be out of the dungeon once more.

They left a trail of destruction in their wake. Finally, as they rounded one last corner, Siri stopped.

"Do you smell that?" she whispered. Hints of Jorrvaskr's scent lingered in the air.

Vilkas nodded. "Aye. Wuuthrad must be in there." Siri nodded. Quickly she unshouldered her pack, counting through her healing potions. Vilkas was surprised at how many the woman carried with her.

"Give me your satchel," she said. Vilkas dropped his pack on the floor, and Siri shuffled a good number of healing potions into it before handing it back to him. "We'll probably need them," she said. Steeling themselves, the two Companions burst through the door.

There were three men sitting at a table on a platform; Siri caught a glimpse of the fragments of Wuuthrad on the table before she was set upon by the Silver Hand. She beheaded one man before she was staggered by something. Turning, she saw a man with a glowing red warhammer approaching her.

Siri took a swing at him, but it barely fazed him—it was as though he hadn't been hurt at all. Instead he laughed wickedly.

"So, the little pups have come to avenge their leader?" he asked. "How sweet…what a pity that it's all in vain. You'll be hunting with Hircine before sundown!"

Incensed, Siri raised her shield, bashing the man's face with it. He staggered for a moment, and she managed to land a good blow to his shoulder, but it still didn't seem to make much of a difference. Increasingly frustrated, Siri retreated a few steps, unsure of what to do. Vilkas was locked in combat with the other remaining Silver Hand warrior; the two seemed evenly matched, so she couldn't expect help from him anytime soon. With a deep breath, she dropped her weapons and shut her eyes.

Her howl echoed through the small stone room. As Vilkas finally gained the upper hand and finished off the man he was fighting, he turned about.

The Silver Hand leader was locked in combat with a werewolf. Vilkas stood in awe—he had never seen Siri transform before, and she was truly a fearsome sight. She battered her opponent with her fierce claws, jumping over him to his companion. Vilkas could tell she was wounded; he was surprised to see her tearing apart one of the fallen Silver Hand leaders, consuming the flesh raw, blood dribbling down her front. Once she finished feeding, she seemed to have regained some of her strength. Turning toward her adversary once more, she was a terrifying sight; her green eyes were fixed upon him, as though he were a morsel of food. Baring her teeth, she gave an otherworldly roar.

The Silver Hand leader stood for a moment, terrified, before his resolve broke. He fled for the door, but Siri was upon him immediately. She grabbed him by the throat, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. Her foe struggled weakly, but it was no use; his life-blood bubbled from his throat, and his movements grew increasingly feeble. Finally he gave up, and hung limply in her jaws. Never again would the Silver Hand bother the Companions.

Siri fought back her bloodlust as she turned to face Vilkas. He stood speechless, gazing at her with—was it admiration? She suddenly became aware of the dead man still clamped in her jaws, and dropped the body to the floor. Vilkas could see her beast receding: the golden-green eyes had become Siri's dark blue eyes once more. Quickly he hurried over to the table, seeing her body beginning to contort as it shrank back down once more; he was conveniently studying the fragments of Wuuthrad when her transformation finished, allowing Siri privacy to dress herself.

He heard her leather boots padding up the stone steps to the platform where the table stood, and soon she stood next to him, looking at the pieces of Wuuthrad.

"So," she said, finally breaking the silence, "I guess we won't have to worry about the Silver Hand anymore." She laid a hand upon his shoulder for a moment before turning away; downing one healing potion, and then another, she walked away to loot the bodies of the fallen men. Vilkas, meanwhile, picked up the pieces of Wuuthrad, placing them in the front pocket of his satchel.

Siri walked to the door at the end of the room, lifting the heavy door-bar and pulling it open. Vilkas followed her out, and they began the long trek south, back to Jorrvaskr.


	28. To Ysgramor's Tomb

**A/N:** I'm getting so impatient with Siri and Vilkas...

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><p>As she entered the Underforge, Siri could hear the voices of Vilkas, Farkas, and Aela.<p>

The ceremony in remembrance of Kodlak was short, but emotional. A good portion of Whiterun came to pay last respects to the Harbinger. When all the words had been said and the pyre set alight, the Circle had withdrawn, and were now discussing their next move.

"The old man had one wish before he died, and he didn't get it," said Vilkas, his voice a mixture of anger and sadness. "It's as simple as that."

"But being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas," Aela replied defensively.

"That's fine for you," Vilkas countered, his voice rising in frustration, "but he wanted to be _clean_. He wanted to meet Ysgramor, and know the glories of Sovngarde! But all that was taken from him."

"And you avenged him," she replied.

"Kodlak did not care for vengeance," Farkas chimed in.

"No, Farkas, he didn't," said Vilkas angrily. "And that's not what this is about, Aela. We should be honoring Kodlak, no matter our own thoughts on the blood."

Aela looked down, ashamed. "You're right. It's what he wanted, and he deserved to have it." Silence fell over the group. None of them seemed to know what to do.

Hesitantly, Siri stepped up to her shield-siblings. She had with her the sack of witch heads, and a small smile on her face.

"Kodlak thought there was a cure," she said. Her three compatriots looked at each other, confused. "He thought there might be a way to cleanse his soul, even in death. It involves these…" Siri gestured to the bloody sack on the floor, "and a trip to Ysgramor's Tomb."

"But we can't even enter the tomb without Wuuthrad," Aela said, arms crossed. "And it's in pieces, like it has been for a thousand years!" Siri smiled, stepping aside.

"And dragons were just stories, and elves once ruled Skyrim. Just because something is, doesn't mean it must be."

Eorlund stepped into the light. He reached up, taking the huge weapon off his back. "A blade is a weapon, a tool. Tools are meant to be broken…and repaired."

"Is that…Wuuthrad?" asked Vilkas incredulously. "Did you repair the blade?"

"This is the first time I've had all the pieces, thanks to your shield-sister here," said Eorlund, patting Siri on the shoulder. He handed her the giant battle-axe.

Siri smiled at her shield-siblings. "I think it's about time we made that journey to Ysgramor's Tomb," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

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><p>The journey to the ancient barrow was a long one; it took them into the northernmost regions of Skyrim, where the winds were harsh and snow was thick on the ground. They had gotten about three quarters of the way there when they heard the telltale roar that shook the ground beneath their feet.<p>

Vilkas turned to Siri and Aela, who were walking behind him. "What was that?" he asked. Siri had tensed up, grabbed her axe, and was standing, crouched low.

"A dragon…" she breathed.

Sure enough, a moment after the resonating cry, a huge dragon shot skyward over the crest of a nearby mountain peak. It leveled off quickly, and immediately spotted the four dark figures standing in the pure white snow below; letting out another hideous cry, the dragon dived toward them.

Aela claimed the first hit on the dragon, having pulled out her bow and arrows. The huntress was an excellent shot, and she landed a square hit between the monster's eyes. Bellowing in pain, the hulking beast landed nearby; Farkas and Vilkas charged forward, their weapons glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, and began attacking the dragon's flanks.

Despite these distractions, the dragon seemed fixated on Siri. Pulling out her axe, she charged at the dragon's face, landing glancing blows on its neck and head before the dragon struck her away with its wing; it also dealt Farkas a devastating blow with its tail, sending him skidding down the icy path.

The dragon rounded on Vilkas as Aela continued to rain arrows upon it. Vilkas buried his sword in its side, jumping backward as a giant wing swatted at him; the sword remained buried hilt-deep in the dragon's side, and blood ran freely from the wound.

Aela loosed another shaft; this time, her aim was impeccable. The dragon bellowed viciously as the arrow struck its eye; blood spattered on the snow, and the dragon redoubled its attacks, angered by the loss of its eye.

_YOL…TOOR…SHUL!_

A huge blast of fire issued from the dragon's mouth; Aela was forced to leap out of the way, and all Vilkas could do was duck. The giant beast made an unsettling sound, one that almost resembled dark laughter, as it slowly made its way toward Vilkas, who was hunched in the snow, undefended.

Suddenly Siri jumped over Vilkas, running up to the dragon's face; she swung her axe relentlessly, landing blow after blow between the dragon's heavy scales. Aela resumed her archery, and Vilkas stood up, lunging for his sword. The dragon struck him away once more, and he rolled to a stop in a nearby snowbank. As he stood up, Aela dodged another blast of fire, leaping toward Vilkas; Farkas, too, joined the group, and the three watched incredulously as Siri—tiny Siri—kicked the dragon in the jaw and took a swing at its other eye.

Blood rained across the snow yet again, and Siri used the dragon's disorientation to her advantage. She leapt onto the dragon's head, straddling its neck, feet resting on the spikes protruding from its face. She hacked away with her axe, unleashing her wrath in a spectacular display of fury. The beast bucked its head, but it was no use; it could not throw her off. A moment later, Siri landed the final blow between the dragon's eyes. Even standing as far back as they were, her companions could hear the sound of axe against bone. The monstrosity slowly slumped down, its jaw lolling open, onto its stomach.

Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas stood agape as Siri carefully jumped down off the dragon's head. She immediately began stripping it of its scales; she managed to get three of them off before the beast's body began disintegrating before their very eyes.

To Siri, this was not a new experience, but her compatriots stared in awe as the odd, shining white energy twisted through the air, reaching for the Dragonborn. The familiar warmth tingled in her body as the dragon's soul sought hers. A moment later the swirling stopped, and all that lay before them was a dragon's skeleton. She turned to her companions, attempting to hide her embarrassment.

"So…we'd best not keep Kodlak waiting," she said, before turning north and walking away swiftly.


	29. Riften

**A/N: **Heh. Sorry about the multiple uploads. Kept finding typos...weird, considering it's such a short chapter. Anyway...enjoy :3

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><p><em>Riften…what a foul place<em>.

Siri had been running for two weeks now. She had cured Kodlak's spirit and been named Harbinger of the Companions—so, naturally, she had bolted. She was sure that the Companions would be in far better hands with someone like Aela or Vilkas in charge; she couldn't understand why Kodlak had chosen to bestow the title upon her. So she had asked Aela to hold down the fort—_I have to take care of some personal matters, and then I will return_—and then left Whiterun behind.

And so she found herself in Riften. After calling a guard on his extortion attempt, she entered the city, heading straight for the local inn.

_I need a drink_.

The inn was called the Bee and Barb, and Siri walked in, sitting herself down at the bar. The barmaid, an Argonian woman, approached her.

"So, new in town, eh?" she asked. "What can I get you?"

"Well," said Siri, "I'll take two of your strongest drink and a room for the night, if you have one."

The barmaid raised an eyebrow and produced a key. "Here's the key to your room. It's the one straight across from the top of the stairs. And here," she said, placing two large bottles before the Nord, "are two bottles of Black-Briar mead. That'll be fifty septims," she said, and Siri dug into her coin purse, handing the Argonian the money.

The further she got into her mead, the sleepier she got; eventually she stumbled upstairs to her room, drunk, and passed out on the bed.

The moons were dark that night, and a strange breeze, much cooler than normal, was blowing off Lake Honrich. A dark figure slid silently through the streets, unnoticed, almost as though invisible.

The figure quickly scaled the wall below Siri's room, grabbing onto the window ledge. He pulled himself up onto one of the beams, standing with light feet while he picked the lock to the window. A moment later, he was in.

His Daedric dagger hung on his belt, glinting in the firelight as he crouched upon the dresser silently, like an owl. He blended into the shadows, silent, waiting. He had his orders. His dear sister had failed. So they had called upon him.

Quietly he stepped off his perch, gliding across the floor. He unsheathed his dagger—a fearsome blade—and approached her carefully. He could not see her face, but her neck, her soft, delicate neck, was exposed, and that was all he needed.

Unexpectedly, his quarry groaned, rolling over slightly. Quickly he backed into the shadows, disappearing once more.

She turned her head, and her face was illuminated in the candlelight. He looked down at her. Seconds turned to minutes.

Finally he looked away. He sheathed his blade and disappeared out the window, back into the night.


	30. The Book of Love

The small market outside the Bee and Barb was rather lively the next morning. Siri had roused herself and, despite a monstrous hangover, headed outside.

It was hard not to be jostled by the crowd, and Siri found herself pushed into another woman—a Dunmer, clad in orange clergy's robes.

"Forgive me," said Siri. "This market is so busy. I must have lost my footing." The Dunmer woman looked curiously at Siri.

"It is no matter, friend; I feel that it was Lady Mara's will that we should meet. I am Dinya Balu," the Dunmer said, extending a hand. "Pray tell, who are you?"

"My name is Siri," she replied, "So—you're a priestess of Mara, then?"

"Indeed I am. I am proud to serve Mother Mara, although I fear that I am getting a little old to carry out some of her work. But you…" Dinya Balu paused for a moment. "You look like an adventurer. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask for your assistance?" Siri smiled at the priestess. Doing Mara's work would be a welcome break from her work as a Companion.

"I would be glad to assist you. What would you have me do?"

"Mara has sent me visions of love in peril," the priestess said. "If you to assist in Her will, I am certain that She will bestow a blessing upon you in gratitude."

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><p>In Ivarstead, she had encountered a fickle young woman—infatuated with one man, but truly in love with another. She knew that the fisherman and the farmer's daughter would be happy together in Ivarstead; she had seen it in their eyes when he had confessed his love for her.<p>

In Markarth, she had seen the love of a bumbling scholar and a battle-hardened housecarl. He was always at a loss for words, but for her, he hadn't needed to say anything at all.

And now here she stood, in the far western plains of Whiterun, searching.

After Iver's betrayal, Siri had wondered if she would ever find love again. Hope's flame had been extinguished in her heart, and she had not allowed a man to sway her emotions the way her first love had. If she had been nothing else, Siri had been reliable—a steadfast friend, but nothing more, and never unpredictable. She had vowed not to allow her feelings to get the better of her when she left Falkreath for Cyrodiil. But upon her return to Skyrim, something had happened.

She had tried to be courteous, tried to keep him at a distance, but somehow he had gotten to her…she remembered the rage and the resentment, the shouting and the moody silences. Since returning to Skyrim, there had been one man in her life who had constantly kept her off-balance and unsure, a man who had wreaked havoc upon her sensibilities. For the first time in a long time, she was not in control.

With the young lovers, she had seen the tempestuous nature of new love; with the scholar and the housecarl, she witnessed the quieter love that came with years and maturity. Now she found herself tucking her amulet of Talos away, and replacing it with the emblem of Mara instead.

She looked around. This was Gjukar's Monument—she had been here once with her father while on a trip to Rorikstead. Suddenly, she caught sight of something glimmering—a spirit walked upon the earth, although the sun was high in the sky. Cautiously, Siri approached.

It was a woman; she stood, surveying the ground. When she sensed Siri behind her, she turned.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

"My name is Siri. What are you doing out here?"

"My name is Ruki. I'm searching for my Fenrig…he was marching with Gjukar's men, and I heard they were wiped out here. But I've turned over every body, and I can't find him…please help me look! He has red hair and a beard to match…" Ruki fell silent, and Siri could see tears rolling down the spectre's cheeks.

"Of course I'll help you," Siri responded, wishing for all the world that she could put a comforting arm around the spirit.

"Thank you," said the spectre. "You have a loving heart."

It took about an hour of searching before Siri finally spotted another ethereal glow in the distance. Sprinting toward it, she soon found herself face-to-face with another spectre—a man this time, armored, with a beard that she could only assume would have been red while he was alive.

"Are you Fenrig?" she asked, slightly out of breath. "Your wife is looking for you."

"Ruki?" the man asked, surprised. "Where is she?"

"West, in the plains over the mountain."

"How odd…" he said. "We're expected to fight there tomorrow. Gjukar elected to camp here for the night. I don't like it, though; we're so visible here…sitting ducks…"

Siri nodded. "Let me take you to Ruki," she said. Fenrig nodded.

"If she's come this far from home, it must be important. Please, lead the way. I just need to be back at camp by dawn."

They ran and ran; finally Gjukar's Monument appeared in the distance, and it was not long before they had reached their destination.

Immediately, Fenrig ran toward Ruki.

"Fenrig! You're alive!" she cried.

"Of course I am," he said, slightly confused. "What brings you here, my darling?"

"I—I had heard that Gjukar's men were wiped out," Ruki replied, barely holding back tears. "I came to find you…"

Siri stepped back. The two spectres had begun to rise into the air.

"But that battle isn't expected until tomorrow…Ruki, what's going on?"

"I'm so confused," she said. "What's happening?"

Fenrig spoke once more, and this time his voice had calmed. "It doesn't matter," he said gently. "I'm here. We're together now—and we will be forever."

Siri watched, her eyes brimming with tears, as the two spirits dissipated in the sky above her. She remembered the words of Dinya Balu.

_For a strong love can withstand storms and even survive death…_

Wiping her eyes, she turned east and began the journey back to Riften.


	31. The Harbinger Returns

**A/N:** By Talos, I'm getting sick of waiting!

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><p><em>A higher comprehension of love<em>, she'd said.

Siri sat in the Bee and Barb, nursing another Black-Briar mead.

_Perhaps a higher comprehension than I wanted_.

She turned the amulet of Mara over in her hands, listening to the dull hum of conversation in the bar.

The doors opened, and two Riften guards walked in. They plopped down on the barstools next to Siri's.

"…an attempt on the Emperor's life! Can you believe it?"

"They say it's the Dark Brotherhood…back on the rise…"

A shiver ran up Siri's spine involuntarily. The movement drew the attention of the guards.

"Well hello there," said the one seated closer to her. "What's your name then, eh, lass?"

"I'm afraid that's really none of your concern," she replied sweetly.

The guard leaned in closer, and she could smell mead on his breath. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, sweetheart," he said.

"You should leave her alone," came a familiar voice from the doorway. Siri turned and felt suddenly overcome with shame.

Farkas had found her. The Companions must have sent him looking for her. With a wolf's nose, it probably hadn't taken him very long.

"Harbinger," he said, "we need you back at Jorrvaskr." The guard seated next to Siri sat up in shock.

"H-harbinger?" he stuttered. "Of the—Companions?" Immediately he leapt to his feet. "My apologies," he muttered quickly, before making a beeline for the door. As the two men left, Farkas approached her.

"You've been gone for weeks," he said. "Aela sent me to find you."

"I'm sorry, Farkas," she said. "I needed to do some soul-searching…I was afraid." She stood up, facing her friend. "I couldn't figure out why Kodlak made me Harbinger—and maybe I'll never know. But I shouldn't have left Jorrvaskr." Farkas shrugged.

"Well, it's in the past now. And I have a favor to ask of you." Siri cocked her head curiously.

"What is it, Farkas?"

"I want you to come with me. I want you to help me cure myself. I don't want to be a beast anymore."

* * *

><p>The journey to Ysgramor's Tomb was a long one, but relatively uneventful. When they finally arrived, Siri led Farkas down the shortcut to the Flame of the Harbinger. She turned to her companion.<p>

"Are you sure about this, Farkas?" she asked. He nodded solemnly.

"I think Kodlak was right. I can't be a good Nord while I'm a beast. I want to be clean, like he was, and go to Sovngarde when I die."

Siri nodded. She turned to the sack of witch heads she'd left in the crypt and took one out.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," he affirmed. With a deep breath, Siri tossed the witch's head into the fire.

She remembered it quite well—the high-pitched howl that echoed around the hall as the wolf spirit broke free from its host. Farkas crumpled to the ground for a moment as his wolf was torn from his body; immediately Siri attacked it, and once Farkas had regained his footing, he joined in.

Farkas's wolf spirit was tenacious. The battle lasted for a few long minutes before he finally managed to land the deathblow. Slowly his wolf slumped forward, and the spirit dissolved into the air.

"Are you okay?" Siri asked, hanging her axe back on her belt. She could see something in his face—as though his spirit was lighter now, without the wolf.

"It's like relaxing into a warm mug of spiced mead," he said happily. "I'm losing aches I didn't know I had!" He stretched his arms out wide, then reaching up over his head. "This is how a warrior should feel: alive and aware, not clouded with thoughts of the hunt."

Siri laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm happy for you, friend." She looked at the blue flame, and Farkas knew immediately what she was thinking.

"I spoke to Vilkas before leaving to find you," he said. Siri's heart skipped a beat at the name, and she turned to face her friend. "He wants to be clean too." Siri nodded.

"As do I," she said with a weary sigh. "I haven't slept well since accepting this affliction…"

Silence reigned for a few moments before Farkas spoke.

"Why did you run away, Siri?" he asked softly. When Siri looked up at him to answer his question, her eyes were glassy.

"I've been…troubled," she said. "I needed to get away. I couldn't think clearly while…" she hesitated, and Farkas's eyes twinkled knowingly.

"Vilkas's been driving you up the wall, eh?" he asked. Siri smiled, wiping her tears away.

"To put it mildly."

"I think," ventured Farkas carefully, "that he has been having a similar problem with you." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, leaning down to whisper in Siri's ear. "Did you know that he's been practicing Restoration magic? Funny thing, you know. Vilkas always hated magic."

He saw her eyes sparkling with hope for a moment before she turned away.

"We should go," she said, quietly looping the amulet of Mara around her neck and tucking the emblem down into her armor. "I am sure Vilkas would like to be rid of the beastblood as soon as possible…"


	32. Cleansed

**A/N:** :3

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><p>She had begun to grow weary of the seemingly interminable trek from Whiterun to Ysgramor's Tomb. It was her third time there in a month, and the ancient barrow was so far removed from everything. It didn't help that brooding Vilkas was at her side this time. There was no amusing conversation as there had been with Farkas—just uncomfortable silence.<p>

Vilkas finally spoke when Ysgramor's Tomb appeared in the distance.

"Thank you for accompanying me, Harbinger," he said stiffly.

Siri sighed. "Please don't call me that," she said. "I don't deserve the title. My name will suffice if you feel the need to address me."

Vilkas looked at her for a moment with an expression she couldn't quite read. Then he turned his sight back to the road.

"Are you going to cure yourself?" he asked. Siri nodded.

"I plan to. I would love to wake up in the morning feeling well rested," she said. "I miss the feeling."

Silence fell once more, and remained until they had reached the Flame of the Harbinger. Grabbing a witch head, Siri approached the flame.

"Are you ready?" she asked. "I'm not sure whose wolf this head will summon…last time it was Farkas's, but last time I wasn't seeking to cure myself, either."

"Throw it in the fire and let's get this over with," Vilkas said.

The head hit the flames, and for a moment, Siri felt as though her soul had been torn apart. She fell to her knees as the wolf erupted from her chest, lunging at Vilkas.

She felt cold and weak, but pulled herself up anyway, drawing her axe and lunging at her wolf spirit. Vilkas hacked away with his greatsword, and within a matter of minutes they had brought the beast low—Siri's wolf hadn't been nearly as powerful as Farkas's.

As soon as her wolf spirit disappeared, Siri felt fantastic. Although she was exhausted from the experience, her body felt fresh. She had been cleansed, and it felt amazing.

She stood upright, swallowing a healing potion, but she couldn't shake the feeling of immense exhaustion. She wondered if the cleansing had been this hard on Farkas.

"Grab another witch head," she said. "Now it's your turn. Are you ready?"

"My soul is prepared," he replied, tossing the head into the fire.

If Farkas's wolf spirit had been tenacious, Vilkas's was downright vicious. Siri couldn't seem to stagger it or even really do any damage.

Suddenly the wolf lunged, tearing the axe out of Siri's hand. It bit down viciously, and she watched in horror as it snapped the handle of her trusty steel war-axe in half. It snarled, launching itself at her and taking her down.

Its claws were sharp, digging into her soft, leather armor. It snapped at her, trying to get her neck in its jaws. All Siri could do was stab at it with her small steel dagger.

Soon the wolf had overpowered her. Exhausted from her own cleansing, Siri could not summon the energy to fight back anymore. Wearied by blood loss, she collapsed.

Vilkas had managed to right himself, and with a fearsome battle cry, attacked the monstrous wolf with all his might. It was a few minutes before he managed to get the upper hand; he kicked the wolf-spectre in the jaw and brought his greatsword down, burying it in the wolf's neck.

As the spirit dissipated, Vilkas's attention turned to Siri. She lay on the floor of the tomb, unconscious and alarmingly pale. He fell to his knees beside her, searching his knapsack for healing potions. When he could find none in his pack, he opened hers; she had two potions, and he pulled her upright, propping her limp form up against his chest. Delicately he poured the potion into her mouth, hoping to Talos that she would swallow it without choking. He was almost overwhelmed by guilt—it was because of him that Siri was so bruised and beaten. He should have come on this journey alone.

It soon became apparent that two minor healing potions were not going to suffice. Although she had regained a bit of the color in her face, Siri was still ghostly white. He could see the giant gashes in her flesh where his wolf had rent her armor and flesh as easily as tearing through tissue paper. He laid her flat upon the stone floor once more, realizing what he had to do.

Taking a deep breath, he called to his mind one of the spell-tomes Siri had caught him reading. He summoned a warm, bright ball of magic to his hand; gently placing his palm over the wounds, he watched in awe as the magic pulled the flesh back together.

At last, while he was healing a particularly nasty gash across her abdomen, Siri's eyes fluttered open once more. He started, the magic in his palm disappearing at once as he realized she was conscious.

Sitting up, she hazarded a look at her armor. The neckline had been torn apart, exposing the amulet hidden beneath; she could see the wolf's clawmarks had essentially shredded her armor, to the point where repairing it wouldn't make sense. Then, curiously, she looked up, meeting Vilkas's eyes.

There was no battle this time, no shame. All she saw in his eyes was relief, and…a sort of tenderness. It seemed so out of place—why was he looking at her like that? This was Vilkas, the man who despised her, who had been ready to tear her to pieces in the training yard of Jorrvaskr. The man whose kindest words to her had been in sarcasm. She found herself unable to look away, lost in his ice-blue eyes.

"Harbinger." he said softly. "Siri…are you okay?"

She abruptly looked away, hoping he couldn't see her blush in the dim light of the barrow. "Yes," she said. "I'm fine. I'll need to get myself some new armor when we get back to Whiterun, though…"

Her sentence trailed off, and she looked at Vilkas with surprise on her face. "Did you heal me?" she asked, her hands examining the giant gashes in her armor. "I only had two healing potions in my pack…they couldn't have…"

There was the Vilkas with whom she was so familiar: a stormy expression settled on his face and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"You were so pale…the wounds were so bad, and it was all my fault," he said quietly. "I had to—"

He hadn't realized how close their faces were until she leaned forward, closing the gap.

She kissed him gently, her hand resting on his chest; he was sure she would feel his heartbeat racing at her touch. When their lips parted, she could see confusion in his eyes. He reached out, caressing her soft cheek with his rough, calloused hands.

"I don't deserve you," he said, his voice laden with emotion. She leaned forward, her forehead resting upon his, her deep blue eyes sparkling.

"And yet here we are," she murmured.


	33. The Stone Quarter

**A/N: **I'm so sorry about the long delay in updating! This chapter took forever to write and edit, because it never seemed good enough...and then when I was trying to publish it yesterday, the website wouldn't let me upload it. Anyway, here's the next chapter; I hope y'all like it, and I promise the next chapter isn't far behind :)

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><p>The sun was sinking below the horizon when Siri and Vilkas arrived in Winterhold. Their walk had been silent, full of stolen glances and shy smiles. Vilkas's mind was still in turmoil—how could she love someone like him?—but he didn't allow his thoughts to show on his face.<p>

"I feel foolish in these clothes," she complained as they crested the last hill, pulling at the fabric of the dress she was wearing. She always carried it around, just in case, but she hadn't worn anything other than armor in such a long time. The cloth was itchy against her skin.

"We'll find you a new set of armor soon enough," said Vilkas, patting her heavily on the back. "And I'm sure Eorlund can forge you a new axe, too. There…up there, it's the Frozen Hearth." He pointed at the inn, and he and Siri trudged toward it through the deep snow. The warmth of the fire was a welcome change from the frigid Skyrim north; even the two Nords were suffering a bit from the cold.

They had not even chosen a seat yet when the door opened once more and a courier stepped inside. As soon as he spotted her, he hurried over.

"Are you…Siri?" he asked. She looked at Vilkas, confused, before turning back to the courier and nodding. "I have this note for you."

"Who is it from?" she asked as she took the scrap of paper. He shrugged.

"Dunno. Someone wearing dark robes approached me late last night out on the road. Whoever it was dropped the note and a hefty coinpurse in my hand; I didn't think it necessary to pry."

Siri sat down at one of the tables in the inn, unfolding the note while Vilkas bought them some food.

_Must speak to you at once. Meet me at smithy in Windhelm._

Frowning, she showed the note to Vilkas as he sat down. "What do you make of this?" she asked.

He examined the note for a moment before setting it down on the table.

"I assume it's not your little Stormcloak friend—I'm sure he would have signed his name. Do you know anyone else in Windhelm?"

Siri shook her head. "No," she said, brow furrowed.

As evening became night, Vilkas drifted off to his room; in time, Siri put down her mead mug and stood. She had reached her decision: the next morning, she and Vilkas would leave for Windhelm.

Her room was on the far side of Vilkas's, and as she walked past, she stopped at the door. The Nord was fast asleep—the first real rest he'd had in years. She smiled, wondering what he was dreaming about, before walking on and finding her own bed.

* * *

><p><em>The bars…the cage! Caged like a beast!<em>

A cold sweat covered his body, and he grasped at the rusty bars of a giant cage. He was standing in some shimmering purple liquid, and covered in blood. He could hear someone sobbing next to him.

_Farkas?_

Farkas, nothing more than a child, sat in another cage. He was hugging something…

There was a loud banging. Laughter. A man in a black robe walked up to the bars of Farkas's cage.

_Well look here, the little runt is crying. Hugging your mommy? Or at least, what's left of her!_

His blood boiled. He tried to yell at the man—_leave my brother alone!_—but his voice came out a strangled yelp. The man turned on him, drawing a dagger and laughing louder.

_The head…the head on the table…_

Suddenly the head on the table was that of a werewolf, frozen in a terrifying, soundless howl. The necromancer before him had become a Silver Hand agent, his silver sword glinting in the firelight.

_He's one of them. He wears the wolf armor! He dies!_

The laughter intensified. He tried to yell once more, but now his voice came out as a fearsome roar. He looked down. His hands were paws with huge claws.

_I am a beast…_

He burst through the door of the cage, leaping upon the Silver Hand.

He fell. The silver sword was buried deep in his heart. He watched as the Silver Hand laughed at him, pulling a torch from the wall. He watched the torch hit the flammable liquid on the floor, watched the room light up. He felt the flames burning his body as the Silver Hand stood above him, laughing maniacally.

Through the flames came the flash of an axe. The Silver Hand crumpled; the flames began to subside, and there she was.

The silver sword had disappeared from his chest, but the pain remained. Quietly she knelt beside him. He could not tell whether he was man or beast, but when he saw the look in her eyes, he had his answer.

Her magic glowed brightly in the dim dungeon. She laid her warm hands upon his chest, and the pain in his heart subsided.

* * *

><p>They had risen early and started the six-hour journey to Windhelm just after dawn. The trip had been uneventful until the pair reached the Windhelm Stables, when a carriage had come hurtling up at an alarming speed with even more alarming news.<p>

The man, usually rather quiet despite his Nord heritage, leapt from the cart.

"The emperor has been assassinated!"

Vilkas and Siri exchanged incredulous looks. Surely this man was mistaken?

"It's true," he said to the people gathering about him. "Upon his own ship—the _Katariah_—by the…the Dark Brotherhood…" he finished in a whisper. "Somehow managed to sneak by the entire crew unnoticed! Didn't happen but two days ago!"

Disquieted by this news, Siri slipped behind the people who had gathered; Vilkas followed her, remaining close. He knew Siri didn't need a bodyguard, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to protect her.

They entered the city, and Siri made a beeline for the smithy. She wanted desperately to return to Whiterun; the news of the emperor's demise had shaken her, and all she wanted was to retreat to the safety of Jorrvaskr with her shield-siblings.

Vilkas and Siri arrived quickly at the Stone Quarter, where the market and the smithy were located. Figuring that the person who had summoned her would approach her, Siri stood patiently by the forge with Vilkas. As she gazed absently at the radiating heat, she wondered what she would craft her new set of armor from. Maybe she could put those dragon scales to good use…

At that moment, Siri's gaze fell upon Hermir Strong-Heart, the blacksmith's apprentice. The girl was staring at her venomously; there was so much hatred behind her eyes that Siri actually stepped backward.

Chaos erupted suddenly as a figure clad in black appeared from nowhere—directly behind Hermir—a blade drawn. Siri recognized the armor: it was the same as the armor she'd stripped off the dead Dark Brotherhood agent who had tried to kill her. A cold wave of horror swept over her as she realized what was about to happen.

The man—or at least, she assumed it was a man, given the figure's build and stature—covered Hermir's mouth. His Daedric dagger glinted in the sunlight as he dug the blade into Hermir's soft throat, and blood rained onto the snowy pavement. Her eyes widened briefly with pain and surprise before her body collapsed, lifeless, to the ground. Immediately Vilkas shoved Siri behind him, drawing his greatsword in case someone attempted an attack upon her, but it was no use. The assassin was nowhere to be seen.

A cold breeze blew through the market as a crowd began to form around Hermir's fallen body. Men drew their weapons, searching for the Dark Brotherhood agent who seemed to have disappeared into thin air. For Siri, though, the world stood still as a warm breath—seemingly from nowhere—tickled her ear.

"Meet me tonight," he breathed into her ear, "Witchmist Grove. I'll be waiting."


	34. Witchmist Grove

**A/N:** I had lots of fun writing this chapter. I told you the next one would be up soon :)

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><p>The assassin was gone, the Stone Quarter was swarming with guards, and the people of Windhelm were still in shock at the murder of Hermir Strong-Heart. Vilkas, meanwhile, was storming angrily down the road behind Siri as she walked south, toward Kynesgrove.<p>

"Siri," Vilkas said, "you can't just run off into the wilds of Skyrim without armor or a weapon! Especially after what just happened—I think we should head for Whiterun immediately!"

"I need to get to Witchmist Grove," she called over her shoulder.

"And what if something happens on the road? What if someone tries to harm you?"

Siri rounded on Vilkas, causing the man to stop short, lest he walk into her. Her face was mere inches from his, and she glared at him. He saw her anger, but he also saw confusion in her eyes.

"Is that why you shoved me behind you in Windhelm?" she asked angrily. "Because you think I can't defend myself?" She was surprised when Vilkas reached out, resting his hands gently on her shoulders, his eyes glassy.

"Is this why you've been so silent?" he asked. As they had left the Stone Quarter, departed Windhelm, and traveled down the road, Siri had not spoken to him, instead walking ahead as though she was trying to leave him behind. "Have you been upset with me?"

"I'm not a child to be coddled, Vilkas," she said. The anger in her voice had begun to waver. "I am the Harbinger, the _Dragonborn_, for Talos's sake. I can take care of myself." Vilkas stepped away.

"I apologize, Harbinger," he said, looking down at the road. "I just…"

Siri looked curiously at him as his words faltered. "What?" she asked, taking a step toward Vilkas.

"At least let me travel with you. As…backup," he said. Though he phrased it as a request, Siri could see by the resolute look in his eyes that she wouldn't be able to stop him. She sighed.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>They reached the grove just after nightfall, when the orange rays of the sun still barely shone over the horizon. A heavy fog had fallen over the clearing; Siri could hardly make out a small hut through the mist, surrounded by towering pine trees.<p>

She drew her dagger, motioning for Vilkas to stay where he was.

"Hello?" she called, wishing that she still had a good set of armor on her. Vilkas had refused to allow her to wear the Dark Brotherhood armor she possessed—not after the assassination of the emperor and the murder of Hermir in the streets of Windhelm. All of a sudden she felt a sharp pain in her left arm.

Backing away with a yelp, Siri saw that a number of pointed stakes were stuck in the ground around the shack. Her arm was bleeding steadily, but she dared not summon her magic for fear that the light would alert something sinister to her presence.

A moment later, though, she felt someone approach her from behind. Vilkas had summoned his Restoration magic in one hand; standing directly behind her, he laid his hand upon her wound, and a moment later it was gone. She couldn't summon any words to reprimand him, though; she found herself rather distracted by his proximity. All she could manage was a pointed glare.

Slowly the two made their way up to the shanty, trying to disturb as little of the underbrush as possible. She made her way carefully up the steps, peering in the door.

The one-room hut was deserted, although there was a candle sitting on a crate in the corner. A folded piece of paper sat atop the crate as well, its shadow dancing in the candlelight. Siri approached the piece of paper, and Vilkas circled around to her side, looking anxiously as she unfolded it. But there was nothing written on it. Siri dropped the paper, unsheathing her dagger once more. Something was not right.

"Tsk, tsk." A voice came from the doorway. "You know, it's really rather rude to go wandering into other people's homes uninvited."

Siri and Vilkas turned, startled, to find a figure standing in the doorway. He was tall and lean, and his voice was smooth and silky. Siri had no doubt that this man could talk his way out of anything. She held her arm out, holding Vilkas in place as she studied the man.

He wore a dark set of armor—black, with red accents. His cowl had a mask on it; only his eyes were visible. He was leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, cleaning an apple on his armor.

It was the assassin from the marketplace.

"Here," he said, tossing the apple to Siri. She caught it instinctively, eyeing it suspiciously before looking up at the man in the doorway. "Oh, don't worry; it's not poisoned. I'm afraid that tactic went extinct after the purification of the Cheydinhal sanctuary."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Of course, how rude of me!" he exclaimed, standing upright. "You, my dear, are addressing the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood." He gave a deep bow before standing up once more. His Daedric blade—the one that had killed Hermir in the marketplace—glowed unsettlingly in the dark room. "At your service."

"You killed that woman in Windhelm," growled Vilkas, drawing his blade. "What do you want with Siri?"

The assassin ignored Vilkas's question, taking a step toward Siri instead. "Siri, Siri. How good it is to see you once more."

Vilkas balked. "Do you know this man?" he asked incredulously. Siri looked at her companion, confused, before looking back at the assassin before her.

"No, I don't. I'm afraid you have the wrong person," she said warily.

"Oh, I'm sure that I don't. I remember you so very well, although it has been quite some time since we've seen each other. But please, my darling, tell me…why are you traveling across Skyrim without a good set of armor and a real blade?"

Vilkas stepped forward angrily. "Enough of these games!" he growled. "Tell us what you want with Siri, or I'll kill you and leave your body for the wolves!"

The assassin took a step back, holding his hands up. "Now, now," he said. "Calm yourself. I mean you no harm. In fact, I saved your life today, Siri." He looked pointedly at her; she was getting noticeably flustered.

"What—what do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, I'm sure you remember that woman who attempted to take your life all that time ago? The assassin you killed?" He nodded, not waiting for an answer. "Her name was Fara; she was a Bosmer. Oh, we thought she would be able to handle you, but my, were we wrong. Her job was to eliminate you, the woman who held the heart of the man Hermir loved…"

Siri looked horrified. "But…I have wronged no one! I'd never even met Hermir!"

The assassin nodded sympathetically and shrugged. "Well, you see, Hermir was in love with a Stormcloak soldier. I'm sure you know him—his name is Iver."

Siri swayed, dropping her dagger. Vilkas immediately put an arm around her waist, steadying her, holding her up.

"Iver? But…I hadn't seen Iver in such a long time…"

"Of course," the assassin replied. "But Iver still held you in his heart; although he and Hermir were terribly close, I understand that from the moment you left Falkreath, Iver refused to love anyone else. Ah, the tangled web of love," he sighed dreamily. "Hermir did the Black Sacrament—she prayed to the Night Mother and asked for the woman who held Iver's heart captive to die, so that at last her love would love her back."

Here Vilkas broke in once more. "Then why did you kill Hermir if she had the contract with you?" he asked.

"My dear Companion," he said. "The woman made the mistake of putting the contract on our darling Siri. She didn't provide a name, though; it was only by luck that I discovered who exactly sweet Hermir wanted dead." He turned to Siri. "You know, the last time I saw you, you were unconscious."

Siri took a step back. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you had had a bit too much to drink that day…ah, but Riften will do that to a person. I myself have been guilty of imbibing to excess at the Bee and Barb." He paused as though reflecting on some good memories, before continuing. "You see, after you killed my dear sister Fara, I was assigned the contract. Naturally, I snuck into your room at the Bee and Barb. It was late; you were fast asleep on the bed. I was about to kill you, I admit. But then I saw your face." He stopped for a moment, and Siri interrupted the silence angrily.

"So, what? You spared me because you thought I was pretty? Are you going to call in the favor now?"

"Oh my dear, no! You misunderstand. When I saw your face, I thought I must have been dreaming. You had been gone from Skyrim for two whole years, and absent from my life for even longer! I was sure you would never come back—certain that I would never see you again. So when I realized Hermir wanted _you_ dead…" he stepped forward, "why, then I knew that she had to die."

He looked curiously at the chain around her neck, his eyes sparkling knowingly.

"So tell me," he prompted slyly, "what happened to my Amulet of Talos?"


	35. A Reprimand

Games » Elder Scroll series » **Companionship** Author: Dovahlok Rated: T - English - Adventure/Romance - Reviews: 115 - Published: 02-16-12 - Updated: 11-03-14 id:7842502

**A/N:** These chapters are getting more and more fun to write. Let me know what you think! I love getting feedback :D

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><p><em>It can't be…after so many years—and father told me he was dead!<em>

Siri couldn't help herself; she reached up to the assassin's cowl, pulling it off his head. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"_Beirir?_" she whispered. "Is…is that really you?"

He was older now, about twenty-seven; his hair was short, not the long, messy rat's nest it had been in his youth, and was the same auburn as Siri's—although it was hard to tell in the candlelight. He looked as though he hadn't shaved his boyish face in a couple of days. His eyes—the same deep blue eyes Siri had—sparkled when she spoke his name.

Before he could even answer, the tall Nord was nearly knocked over as his baby sister threw her arms around him. She buried her face in his chest, and he returned her embrace, resting his cheek on the top of her head. He could feel her shaking in his arms, suppressing silent sobs.

Abruptly, Siri wriggled free. Disbelief had been replaced by anger. Her face had already begun to blotch with tears, but it did nothing to soften her eyes as she glared at him.

"The Dark Brotherhood, Beirir?" she asked fiercely. "That's where you've been this whole time? _That's_ where you went? What you left us for?"

Her brother's face stayed solemn and unreadable as he looked at her appraisingly.

"I don't want you to think I chose this life over you," he said simply. "There is nothing in my life that I would put before my baby sister."

"And yet it seems as though there is," snarled Vilkas before turning to Siri. "Siri…please tell me you're not related to…to…an _assassin?_"

Siri turned back to face her fellow Companion. "It…would appear that I am, Vilkas," she replied softly.

Beirir had always considered himself an astute observer of people. That was one of the reasons he was so good at what he did. As he watched Siri speaking with Vilkas, he could see the restrained feelings from both—in fact, he was fairly certain that their hidden affections would have been obvious even to the drunkest bar-rat in Riften. There was noticeable tension with every word; she stood too close, he spoke too gently. She was holding herself back from something—the same thing that Vilkas was attempting to suppress.

Siri turned back to her brother. "Beirir," she said, "I do not approve of the life that you have chosen. I must admit that it makes me a bit sick to think of my brother—my big brother, who was always looking out for me—as an assassin." She paused for a few moments, looking pensively at him, before continuing. "But I know you have a good heart, and a strong sense of justice. You always have. I know you wouldn't murder an innocent person in cold blood." The look she gave Beirir as she spoke was laden with meaning.

"I have some sense of honor," Beirir replied, feigning injury at his sister's words. "But really, sister," he continued. "I see that you are wearing—if I am not mistaken—an Amulet of Mara." For a split second, Vilkas could have sworn that Beirir's twinkling blue eyes had flashed in his direction. "You do still have the amulet I gave you, don't you?"

This time it was Siri who looked hurt. "Brother," she said. "I value that amulet far beyond anything else I own. I only…I switched to the Amulet of Mara because I…I have been fighting many dangerous beasts lately, and it provides a boost to my Restoration magic." Beirir looked at her as the words tumbled hastily from her mouth; he had one eyebrow raised and a slight smile on his lips, and she flushed with embarrassment under his skeptical gaze.

Finally Beirir relented. "So," he said, mercifully changing the subject, "where are you two bound for now?"

"Well, Vilkas and I are headed back to Whiterun now," Siri said.

"Excellent! I just happen to have some business there myself," said Beirir. Then, in response to an ugly glare from Vilkas, he shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. I am just delivering a parcel to the priest of Arkay. Mind if I tag along?"

This time it was Siri's turn to look skeptically at her sibling. "If you're going to be wearing _that_, then yes, I do mind."

"Ah, sister. You think I wander around in my armor all the time? I have street clothes too, you know."

* * *

><p>Vilkas and Siri waited outside the cabin as Beirir changed his outfit and stowed his assassin's equipment in his rucksack.<p>

"Are you sure we can trust him?" asked Vilkas quietly.

"Beirir is my brother, Vilkas," she said. "I know I haven't seen him in years, but he promised he would always look out for me. He's not a bad person; I'm sure he has had good reasons for doing the things he's done. You just need to get to know him."

Siri spent a good portion of the trip wandering ahead of Beirir and Vilkas, examining and gathering plants and insects and giving the two men plenty of privacy. Beirir knew exactly what his sister was doing, and did not intend to waste the time she was giving him.

"So how long have you known my sister?" he asked Vilkas suddenly. The Companion flinched at this sudden question.

"Quite some time now," he answered curtly. To his chagrin, his succinct answer earned a scolding from the assassin.

"Tsk, tsk," Beirir said, plucking a thistle branch as he continued to walk. "You know, Siri is my younger sister. I feel that I have the right to know about the people with whom she chooses to associate."

Vilkas glared at Beirir. His face was perfectly visible in the light from the two moons overhead. "What, worried she might fall in with a bad crowd, are you?" he snarled.

"Temper," chided Beirir once more. "I am merely interested in you, my dear Companion. Siri clearly trusts you, and unless I am mistaken, she wants us to get to know each other. Which is exactly what I intend to do. Besides," he added shrewdly, "don't think I didn't see the two of you talking."

"What do you want from me?" Vilkas hissed angrily, trying to keep his voice low so that Siri wouldn't hear him. Beirir gazed intently at Vilkas for a few moments before answering. The assassin's eyes, so similar to Siri's, made Vilkas incredibly uncomfortable as they stayed fixed upon him.

"You know," said Beirir, turning back to face the road sprawling ahead, "I don't believe Siri for a moment when she says that she's wearing that amulet for the Restoration benefit. But I do find it interesting that she isn't wearing it openly. I wonder why that could be…"

Vilkas remained silent, but even in the dim light, Beirir could see the corner of his mouth twitch.

"What do you think?" Beirir pressed. "Perhaps she is afraid of rejection. Aha! I bet that's it. It makes sense, don't you think?"

Vilkas looked up at the moons, turning his face away from Beirir's. "That's ridiculous," he said. "Why would anyone turn her down?"

"Well, I don't know," said the assassin with an exaggerated shrug. He sighed deeply. "It's a mystery, certainly."

Vilkas said nothing, keeping his gaze fixed on the path.

Siri broke the silence as she called back to her two traveling companions. "I'm going to go explore by the river down there," she said, pointing to the shimmering water up ahead. "I think there might be a Nirnroot specimen nearby. I'll be right back!"

As Siri's footsteps receded into the darkness, Beirir grabbed Vilkas's shoulder and pulled him about so that the two men were face to face. Siri's brother had lost all pretense of bewilderment and stood, his sharp blue eyes burning deeply into Vilkas's.

"I'm done beating around the bush," he said. "Siri is gone, so you can be honest with me. Now tell me: do you love her?"

Vilkas stepped back, completely at a loss. "What business is this of yours?" he growled when he finally regained his composure.

"What business is it of mine?" asked Beirir. "Oh my. You think I have no interest in my baby sister's happiness? I see the way she looks at you—it's the same way you look at her. So I'll ask you again, and don't lie to me please. Do you love her?"

Vilkas felt anger bubbling up from his core. He grabbed Beirir's shoulders, pushing him backward. The assassin stumbled backward a few steps, caught off guard by the Companion's sudden aggression.

"Of course I love her," he snarled. "She is the most incredible, compassionate, hard-headed woman I've ever met. I would do anything for her!" Vilkas turned away. "But I don't deserve her. She has done so much for me…I owe her my life—my very _soul_. My place in Sovngarde is secure because of her." His voice turned bitter. "I owe her so much...but there is nothing in the world I can do to be worthy of her affections."

After a few long minutes of silence, Beirir spoke once more.

"You're being selfish," he said bluntly, sparking Vilkas's ire once more. The hulking Nord turned angrily toward the assassin.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

"Whether you are worthy of her affections or not is not for you to decide," Beirir answered firmly. "That is _her_ decision. Acting the way you are—keeping her at a distance—you'll just wind up breaking her heart again, like that sorry wretch Iver did. And if you do that," he said menacingly, "you will be sorry."


	36. Advice

They arrived back in Whiterun before dawn, and Vilkas immediately took off for Jorrvaskr, leaving Siri and Beirir alone.

"He's an odd one, your friend," Beirir observed as they watched Vilkas walking away.

"It takes a while to earn his trust," Siri replied. "He also holds his beliefs very strongly…I think your chosen profession has done little to endear you to him." Beirir shrugged, and the two continued walking along the road, bound for the Temple of Kynareth.

When they had finished Beirir's errand, the brother and sister wandered around the city. Siri took him to her home, though it was still sparsely furnished, and they sat in the square talking and laughing until lunchtime, when they headed over to the Bannered Mare for some mead. For a while they simply sat in silence, each enjoying the other's presence. It was Beirir who finally broke the silence.

"So tell me, Siri," he said, gesturing to the barmaid to fill his tankard once more, "how long have you been in love with your friend Vilkas?"

Siri smiled sadly, her eyes fixed upon her mug. "I never could keep a secret from you, Beirir," she said.

"Well, what are meddling big brothers for, but to stick their noses in their baby sisters' business?" he quipped. "And now that I am back in your life, expect it to happen a lot more often."

She sat silently, and Beirir took a long draught from his mug before giving her a peculiar look.

"You know, you can't let a good thing like this slip away," he said. Trailing his fingers under the amulet's chain, he pulled the emblem out over her dress. "A lost opportunity…it's a damaging thing. I can attest to this from personal experience. It's a pain I hope to save you from." Siri looked curiously at her brother, realizing that there was so little she knew about his life in the intervening years since she'd seen him.

"What do you mean?" she asked, putting her tankard down.

"I lost someone very dear to me recently," he said. "My darling Gabriella…oh, how her face lit up at the mention of murd—" he faltered. "Eh, but that's not important. What matters is that I never took advantage of the opportunity I had. She was killed, and I lost my chance to be with her, the woman I loved. I don't want you to suffer the same pain."

Siri smiled at her brother, putting her hand on his. "I have missed you so, Beirir," she said.


	37. The Skyforge

**A/N:** I'm sorry this chapter took so long to publish! It went through so many incarnations...I just couldn't decide how to handle it. I must have written and deleted thousands of words by the time I got this chapter the way I wanted it!

In all seriousness. The last paragraph alone took me forty-five minutes.

So...I hope my time was time well spent, and I hope you all enjoy it :)

* * *

><p>It had been days since he'd seen her: seven days since she'd been slaving away over the Skyforge with Eorlund, working on a new set of armor and a blade; five days since she'd departed for High Hrothgar with Beirir, to speak to the Greybeards at last. When she finally returned, Siri looked quite worn out, and had retreated immediately to the Harbinger's quarters.<p>

He had not missed the quiet footsteps that night, when his shield-siblings were all sound asleep. He had heard the patter of her small feet as she scurried through the Jorrvaskr living quarters, trying to slip out silently, without waking any of her fellow Companions. But he had been awake, and after a few minutes, followed her outside.

As he closed the doors of Jorrvaskr silently, he turned in an attempt to find out where the Dragonborn had gone. He remained still; finally his ears caught a sound.

_Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart._

He sidled between the building and a column, trying to remain out of sight, lest he should disturb the tranquil night.

_I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes_.

Peering around, he saw her.

_With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art._

She sat by the Skyforge, singing quietly to the night, playing with the amulet around her neck.

_Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes._

He ventured slowly up the stairs, listening to her sweet voice carry the oft-sung bar melody. When he reached the top of the stairs, her singing stopped abruptly, though she remained seated and continued to gaze out over the plains of Whiterun.

"Hello, Vilkas," she said.

"Trouble sleeping, eh?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said with a small laugh. She turned her head slightly, and he caught her profile in the soft light of the moons. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I suppose I should leave the sneaking to my brother."

Vilkas shrugged. "So…how was your trip up to High Hrothgar?" he asked. "The Greybeards…"

"They formally recognized me as the Dragonborn," she said. "It's so strange…I remember the tales of the Dragonborns of old from my childhood. I remember thinking how the Dragonborn was this…_incredible_ hero. But I'm not that hero, Vilkas." She hunched forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "And it's terrifying to think that the world expects such great things of me. They think I'll end the civil war, reunify Tamriel…" she stood up and walked toward the forge, its radiant heat warming her. "I am supposed to kill Alduin, the World-Eater. I have never been so terrified…so _confused_."

Vilkas walked over, standing next to her.

"They want me to save the world," she said softly, crossing her arms. "But I don't know if I can."

Vilkas laid a hand on her shoulder and pulled her to face him. He could see that she was wearing an Amulet of Mara; the pendent was resting just above her heart, the gems sparkling in the moonlight.

"If anyone can do it, it's you," he said simply. His eyes lingered on the amulet for a moment before meeting her eyes. "And I'm certain you won't have to do it all alone, either. Especially if you're wearing that Amulet of Mara," he said with a chuckle. "You'll probably be beating the men off left and right—I bet they'd be falling over themselves for a chance to help you, to win your affections."

Siri looked up at him.

"And what about you?" she asked, sounding bolder than she felt. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she waited for him to answer.

Vilkas's eyes, usually so brooding and stoic, became soft and glassy. He moved his hand to her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone with his thumb.

"I…" he spoke, his voice low, resolute. "I would follow you to Oblivion and back. I would take on the World-Eater himself for you." He leaned forward until their noses were less than an inch apart. "I would stand by your side, until the Divines would take us to Sovngarde."

This time it was Vilkas who closed the gap; he could feel his heart racing as their lips touched. His broad hands rested on her waist, and he pulled her gently toward him; she, in turn, leaned forward on tiptoe, losing herself in the moment.

When they finally separated, Vilkas wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Gently he took her hand, holding it to his chest. Siri could feel his heart beating steadily. She rested her head on his chest, leaning into him.

"You were my saving grace, Dragonborn," he murmured. "And my heart will beat for you forevermore. If you will have me, I promise that you will never have to face the world alone."


	38. Schemes

**A/N:** Now that midterms are over, I'm hoping to be able to update more frequently again. Heh. Fingers crossed, right?

* * *

><p>The door to Candlehearth Hall swung open, and a cold wind whipped into the room. The candles on the counter flickered as the traveler, who was heavily bundled up against the weather, entered the room and walked up to the bar.<p>

Elda couldn't see his face; the man wore a mask, presumably to protect himself against the bitter cold. In the flickering candlelight, she couldn't even make out his eyes. He gestured toward the rooms, flipping a ten-septim piece onto the counter; his heavy traveling cloak billowed as he moved to accept the key. Silently, the man retreated to his room and shut the door.

A few minutes later, the door swung open again, and a small group of Stormcloak soldiers entered the inn. Elda walked up to the bar as the men seated themselves.

"So, what'll it be tonight?" she asked. "The usual?"

The man sitting in the center, a beefy Nord with dark hair, dropped a hefty coin purse on the counter. "Your strongest brew for this one tonight," he said, clapping his hand on his friend's back.

Elda looked at the man the Nord had indicated. "I don't know, Hansl…it seems like he's already several tankards deep."

Hansl shook his head, and his other friend—a small, stout Nord named Odmir—chimed in.

"Elda," he said, leaning across the counter to whisper in her ear, "the girl he loves is getting married. Remember her? The Harbinger?"

Elda gave a sympathetic sigh and stood up, turning to fetch a few tankards of her strongest mead.

Iver swayed on his barstool as he accepted the tankard of mead Elda placed before him. Without hesitation, he took a large gulp. Some of the mead ran from the corners of his mouth, and a good deal sloshed down onto his cuirass, but he didn't care.

"I'll always love you, Siri," he sobbed drunkenly. Hansl tousled the blonde Nord's greasy hair as Odmir shook his head. The two men had already begun to join Iver in his drunken stupor.

"It'll be okay," Hansl said. "Maybe it won't work out between them. Who knows? Maybe one of them will get cold feet. Maybe someone won't show up to the wedding."

Iver's eyes lit up, and he turned suddenly, grabbing Hansl's shoulders.

"That's _it!_" he cried. "I can go to Riften and _stop_ her. I can take her away with me and make her love me again!" His words were slurred significantly, but the light of determination shone in his eyes as he detailed his plan very loudly to his friends.

The masked man in the next room sat on his bed, back against the wall, listening.

Waiting.

* * *

><p>A cool breeze snaked its way through the room, and Hansl woke with a start. The furs had fallen off his bed; as he reached down to grab them, he noticed that the bed next to his was empty.<p>

Odmir was rudely awakened a moment later as Hansl shook him into consciousness.

"Did Iver tell you he was leaving?"

* * *

><p><em>Oh…my head…<em>

He clutched a hand to his forehead, attempting to fight off the ferocious hangover that had set in overnight. Slowly he opened his eyes, looking to see if either of his companions was awake.

He sat up stiffly as he realized he was no longer in the inn.

"Ah, awake at last," cooed a voice from the shadows. Iver tensed.

"Who are you?" he asked of the darkness, his voice shaking.

Silence answered his question.

"What—what do you want with me?" he asked, his voice strangled as he fought to suppress the blind panic burning in his chest.

Slowly a large man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and lean and clad entirely in Dark Brotherhood armor. A mask covered his face, and all that Iver could see was the reflection of the candlelight dancing in his eyes. He was smiling; Iver shuddered as the cold, seemingly soulless eyes bored into him.

The stranger remained silent. The dagger that hung on his belt glowed an eerie red in the darkness.

"Please," Iver moaned. "Please…let me go…"

The assassin drew nearer to Iver, moving forward until his shrouded face was mere inches from his captive's.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice a venomous whisper.

Before Iver's eyes, the assassin vanished into thin air.


	39. Riften Docks

**A/N:** I feel awful about the long update times...I used to be so good about it! But I just can't figure out how to write these chapters to save my life.

Anyway, here's the next chapter!

* * *

><p>He was nervous.<p>

Vilkas had arrived in Riften with his fellow Companions in the late afternoon, a day ahead of the ceremony, and the group had checked into the Bee and Barb. Now here he lay; the hour was painfully late, and he was quite restless, endlessly tossing and turning.

He envied Aela and Farkas; the three of them had been put in one room, and neither his brother nor the huntress was having any trouble sleeping, despite the fact that they were in bedrolls on the floor. Farkas was on his back, his mouth wide open, snoring lightly; Aela, ever her elegant self, slept curled up on her side, war paint smudged off, cushioning her head with her hands.

Their ability to sleep aggravated him, and Vilkas heaved himself off the bed, careful not to make any noise. He slipped out of the room, shutting the door gently, and made his way out of the inn, wandering toward the docks. He did not know he was being followed.

He pushed open the gate to Riften's docks, giving a grunt in response to a "Hail, Companion," from one of the guards. He walked past the Riften Fishery, out to the boats docked along the pier. Sitting down, he dangled his feet into the water of Lake Honrich and looked up at the stars.

A dark figure crept silently up behind the Nord, moving purposefully. A moment later, Vilkas started at the arms wrapped around his neck.

It was Siri. Vilkas laid a hand over his heart, feeling it race, and smiled at her.

"You gave me quite a scare," he said. "My heart is pounding."

She rested her head against his, her arms draped over his shoulders lovingly.

"You left the inn," she said. "Are you troubled?"

Vilkas sat silently for a while, staring out over the lake. Siri, sensing that Vilkas had something important to say, sat down next to him, her legs crossed, arms resting on her knees. Finally he broke the silence.

"I suppose I'm just nervous," he said. "I have no idea of what to expect after tomorrow, and I haven't a clue as to why you are willing to marry me."

He felt Siri place a comforting hand upon his knee as she spoke. "You're not a beast, Vilkas," she said. "You never were. You were a courageous, honorable Nord warrior afflicted with a curse. You fought it—I could see that in your eyes and actions whenever I was around you."

He turned his head, looking at her curiously.

"If you knew it was a curse, why did you accept it?" he asked. She smiled absently, as though remembering a painful memory.

"Do you know when I fell for you?" she asked abruptly. Vilkas raised an eyebrow, his face a picture of puzzlement. "It was the day we were coming back from Shor's Stone. The day I saw you as a wolf."

Vilkas's cheeks burned with shame and he looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes. "I…I was horrible to you that day," he mumbled.

"You were tormented," she corrected. "You defended yourself—you defended _me_—in the only way you could, but I could see you hated yourself for it. I wanted to help you…I _loved_ you, from the moment I saw how much you were hurting inside. That's why I took the beastblood."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Siri's hand remained resting comfortably on Vilkas's knee. Finally she leaned close to him, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"I love you," he managed. She smiled at him, rising to return to the Bee and Barb.

"I'll see you at the temple in the morning," she said.


	40. The Temple of Mara

**A/N: **You know, my inspiration for this story came after Siri married Vilkas in my game. Whenever she comes back to Breezehome, he greets her and you can just hear how much he loves her in his voice. But what really gets me is when he says, "Bye, love," to her when she ends a conversation with him. Priceless and adorable!

Also, I'm going to take a moment to plug my other story, just in case any of you are interested in Beirir's backstory. It's called The Listener, and it's pretty much all about his life and how he wound up where he is.

* * *

><p>It was not even sunrise, and already a crowd had gathered in the Temple of Mara. The Companions occupied the front rows of the chapel, and the townspeople—eager to witness the marriage of the Dragonborn—clustered into the back. Siri, meanwhile, stood by the altar, waiting anxiously. Beirir hadn't arrived in Riften yet, and he had promised to be at the wedding.<p>

She met Vilkas's eyes, and he could see her confusion. None of the other guests seemed to notice, though; most were milling around, speaking loudly to one another, waiting for Maramal's cue to sit. Vilkas was about to reach for her hand when one of the large doors creaked open.

The man, wearing a hooded mage's robe that hid his face, wove his way through the crowd of people before stopping before Siri and dipping a low bow. She couldn't hide the smirk upon her face as she pushed the hood off his head.

"Honestly, Beirir, how many outfits do you carry with you?"

Her brother righted himself, a roguish smile upon his lips.

"I apologize for my tardiness, Siri," he said. "I had some…eh…_business_ to attend to. But I would be exiled to Oblivion before I would miss my baby sister's wedding."

He enveloped her in a tight hug; after a few long moments he relinquished her and went to take a seat. Siri turned, nodding to Maramal, and the priest gestured for the guests to sit.

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation, and pledged to watch over us as her children…"

Siri's heart raced in her chest, and Maramal's words faded into the background, nothing more than a faint hum in her mind. She found her eyes drifting up the wooden walls, so warmly lit by the candlelight, and the banners dyed deep red…eventually, she jerked back into reality, only to find her gaze settled squarely upon Vilkas.

_What a specimen of a man…_

He was smiling at her, and she could tell that behind that smirk he wore he was suppressing a chuckle.

_By Talos_, she thought, cheeks flushing slightly, _how long have I been staring at him?_

Suddenly she heard Maramal's words and jumped slightly, turning her face back to the Redguard priest.

"Do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?" he asked. Vilkas's eyes twinkled at Siri before he turned to address the priest.

"I do. Now and forever."

_Gods, what a voice. So smooth, and his accent…irresistible._

Maramal turned to her, drawing her attention to him once more. "Do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?" he prompted.

She was unable to temper her broad smile as she answered the priest. She reached over, taking Vilkas's hand in hers.

"I do. Now and forever."


	41. Festivities

The celebration in Whiterun the next day sprawled from Jorrvaskr down to the Gildergreen and even down to the Plains District. It seemed that everyone in town wanted to partake in the celebrations. Mead flowed as water, and the revelry lasted from dawn to dusk, and on into the night.

Siri, however, was tired.

Following the ceremony, Vilkas had swept her off her feet, holding her close to his chest, and headed directly for the carts that would take him and his new bride—as well as the rest of the Companions—back to Whiterun for the festivities. It was an overnight trip, and none of them had slept well.

Siri was sitting on a bench by the Gildergreen, a mug of mead in her hands, watching the people of Whiterun as they partook in the merriment. The children of the town were running to and fro; even Lars Battle-Born seemed to be having fun.

While she was sitting, Siri saw Lydia approaching. She waved happily, gesturing for her housecarl to take a seat beside her. Lydia obliged, congratulating her Thane heartily as she sat down.

"So Lydia," Siri said after a moment, "you usually know what's going on in town. Why are there so many guards out today?"

The first thing Siri had noticed upon entering Whiterun was the abundance of guards in the city. They were everywhere, and they seemed to constantly have an eye on her wherever she went. It was slightly unnerving, but if anyone knew why there were guards everywhere, it would be Lydia.

Lydia looked blankly at her Thane for a moment before speaking. "Didn't you hear about that Vittoria Vici woman over in Solitude?" she asked.

Siri raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Vittoria who? What happened in Solitude?"

* * *

><p>Beirir waltzed effortlessly through the crowd, searching for his baby sister. He had seen Vilkas standing with his brother by the stairs to Dragonsreach, but Siri had eluded him thus far. Finally he saw the familiar figure, seated at the base of the large tree Gildergreen, and wove his way toward her.<p>

"What happened in Solitude?" he heard her ask as he approached.

_Solitude?_

He placed a hand upon her shoulder to alert her to his presence, but she didn't seem to be paying attention. He took a deep draught of mead from the mug in his other hand while his sister's housecarl spoke once more.

"She was assassinated at her own wedding by the Dark Brotherhood! The Jarl ordered extra protection for you today, just in case they tried something with you as well."

Beirir snorted into his mug, sending a fine mist of mead into the air. Lydia looked at him curiously, and Siri elbowed him in the ribs.

"My apologies," he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his face clean. "I think some of that mead went down the wrong way. I came over to see if I could steal my sister away for a moment, Lydia. Do you mind?"

The housecarl shrugged. "Go right ahead," she said.

Beirir and Siri wandered toward Jorrvaskr, sitting down on some of the terraced earth by the stairs. Beirir produced an apple from his pocket and took a big bite as Siri considered her words.

"So," she said finally, "am I correct in assuming that you're the reason for all these extra guards today?"

Beirir's lips curled slightly upward. He took another bite of his apple before answering.

"I suppose I can take a bit of the blame, yes," he said.

Siri sighed, shaking her head and looking out over the festivities.

Aside from the guards swarming everywhere, she could see the various citizens of Whiterun running about, enjoying the festivities. Siri could see Carlotta Valentia and her young daughter Mila sitting on a bench beneath Gildergreen, the young girl enjoying a sweetroll while her mother hugged her close. She noticed Jon Battle-Born and Olfina Gray-Mane standing behind the Temple of Kynareth, and saw them share a brief kiss before separating back into the throngs of people in the streets. She scanned the crowd and found her husband standing by the stairs to the Plains District. He was watching something, and following his line of sight, she saw Farkas sitting down next to Lydia, offering her some mead. Siri was sure she'd caught the hint of a shy smile on Lydia's lips as she accepted the tankard from him.

While Siri was watching the crowd, Beirir stood up to fetch some more mead. He was busy filling the tankards when he sensed a presence next to him.

"Ah, if it isn't the proud groom," he observed without looking up. Vilkas grunted a greeting, standing in silence for a moment before he finally spoke.

"I assume," he said quietly, "that we have you to thank for the…uneventful nature of the ceremony."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Beirir said. His voice was sincere, but when he stood, turning to face his new brother-in-law, Vilkas could see the smirk evident upon his features.

"So, what did you do with Iver?" Vilkas asked. He was not buying Beirir's performance for a moment.

Beirir's eyes twinkled. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, dear brother," he said coyly. "Although…" he feigned deep thought for a moment before continuing, "I _did_ hear that a Stormcloak went missing from Candlehearth Hall in Windhelm a couple days ago. Perhaps our beloved Iver has been taken away and detained somewhere. I would have to congratulate the person responsible on his impeccable timing…."

He gave Vilkas a thin smile before turning and walking back to Siri.

* * *

><p>As night fell, the crowd began to disperse, and the Companions retreated to the courtyard of Jorrvaskr. Lydia followed her Thane dutifully, though she was engaged in lively conversation with Farkas, and Beirir walked up the steps arm-in-arm with Siri. For a moment she thought she caught Beirir's eyes wandering over to Aela, but the moment passed, and then he was looking at her with a genuine smile, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.<p>

The revelry at Jorrvaskr lasted long into the night. Finally, when even the crickets had gone to sleep, the Companions drifted off to their respective beds, and Lydia and Beirir headed back to Breezehome for the night. Wordlessly, Vilkas scooped his wife up, cradling her in his arms and carrying her down to the Harbinger's room.

He laid her on the bed gently, sitting beside her and brushing the hair out of her face as she lay languorously on the sheets, smiling tiredly up at him. What a long couple of days they'd had…

He kissed her forehead softly, standing up, unsure of what she expected of him tonight. Sensing his hesitation, Siri sat up, taking hold of his hand and interlocking her fingers with his.

"Stay," she said simply.

At this word, Vilkas began to shake, his nerves getting the better of him, despite his ample experience with women. This, though...this was different. To be standing here, before his wife…to be joining with another not out of need, but in love…

It didn't help, of course, that he had been celibate since Siri's arrival. As maddening as the girl had been, there had been something about her—after their first bout of sparring, Vilkas had known that there was no other woman in Skyrim who would be satisfying for him, and he had given up his lustful indulgences. His heart had called for Siri, longed to be one with hers. And yet here he stood, his body betraying him with its quakes and quivers.

Siri placed a gentle hand upon his arm and urged him to sit next to her on the bed once more. Her gentle kisses soon soothed his nerves, calming his tremors, and he reciprocated them earnestly.

At last they came together, releasing months of repressed emotion and desire. There was no fight for dominance, no eager battle for control: they moved in harmony with one another, giving and taking equally; by the time dawn broke the next morning, they both knew what it was to feel ecstasy.


	42. Palace of the Kings

**A/N: **So I know Siri and Vilkas are married now (yay!) but...this story is far from over :3

Please let me know what y'all think! It makes writing so much easier if I'm not flying blind ^_^

* * *

><p>Ulfric Stormcloak was livid.<p>

He remembered that girl, the one from the cart to Helgen. He had been seated next to her. He hadn't the faintest idea why she'd been in the cart with them—the girl was so small that he had been sure she wouldn't be able to even lift a sword, much less wield it against the Empire. He just remembered her presence, and the fact that they had both narrowly escaped the chopping block that day. Her strange words, the ones she'd uttered in the keep as they had hidden from the dragon ravaging the village, came back to him as clearly as if she had just spoken them to him, and it only added to the anger he was feeling.

_It felt as though it shook in my very being…_

The dragon's Thu'um. He understood now, too late. Perhaps if he had known…if he had acted sooner, she could have been his.

His _Dovahkiin_. The answer to his prayers. His secret weapon, and the end to the damnable stalemate in which he found himself. With the power of her Voice, he could easily have brought the Empire to its knees.

His hands shook as he reread the brief, frantic missive he'd received not half an hour before via courier.

_Ulfric,  
><em>_Dragonborn has joined Imperial forces._

He had only one option. He ordered Galmar to summon a courier and retreated to his office to draft an invitation.

* * *

><p>Morning found the newlyweds sound asleep in the Harbinger's quarters at Jorrvaskr. Siri had recently returned from Haafingar after clearing out a bandit den in Fort Hraggstad and pledging her allegiance to the Legion; she was exhausted, and all too happy to find herself once more sleeping in her husband's arms. She had curled up against Vilkas's chest, and he in turn had his strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against his chest. He was hugging her tight, as though he would never be able to have her close enough to him; his gentle breaths fluttered through her hair, and as Siri slowly awakened, she felt as though her heart was full enough to burst. Everything seemed right in the world.<p>

A frenzied hammering on the bedroom door shattered the serene silence and startled both Nords rudely into consciousness. Vilkas, quite disoriented, stumbled about, attempting to pull on the night-tunic he'd left on the dresser; Siri, on the other hand, quickly donned her new armor—made as a wedding gift by Farkas and Eorlund from her collected dragon scales—before jerking the door open, a venomous glare upon her face.

She was shocked to find a courier standing before her. Aela and Farkas stood behind him, both seething angrily.

The unfortunate man surrendered the missive he'd been sent to deliver before Farkas hauled him off roughly, Aela following closely behind.

Siri unfolded the piece of paper, holding it curiously in the candlelight.

_To the Harbinger of the Companions:  
><em>_Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm cordially requests the honor of your company at the Palace of the Kings as his personal guest. Please send a reply by courier as soon as possible._

Siri rolled her eyes at the pretentious formality of the invitation in her hands. Honestly, she didn't think she would have many words for the man whose rebellion nearly cost her her life; nevertheless, she was intrigued. She supposed he had heard of her move to join the Imperial Legion; perhaps it made him nervous. She smirked at the thought.

Vilkas looked at his wife, somewhat confused, and she showed him the letter.

"You're not…you're not actually going to speak with that racist bastard, are you?" Vilkas asked, horrified. She shrugged, looking at the paper once more before answering.

"I think I will," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. "You never know what secrets the man might divulge."

* * *

><p>Iver jolted awake.<p>

_I am…alive!_

He sat up in his bed. He was back in the barracks in Windhelm, seated upon his own bed. He stood up, patting himself down as though to inspect himself for wounds or missing articles, and found himself entirely intact.

_Did that really happen?_

The man in black and red armor had seemed so real, and the time he had spent in that dank pit seemed interminable…but here he was, completely unscathed, in Windhelm.

Suddenly the door to the barracks creaked open, and he could hear voices coming from the main hall.

"Jarl Ulfric, your guest has arrived." Iver recognized the gruff, gravelly voice of Galmar Stone-Fist immediately.

_Guest?_

Curious, Iver walked down the hall and out the door, passing a fellow Stormcloak soldier as he walked into the main hall.

He didn't recognize this guest from the back. It was a woman, clearly; she was wearing a set of armor the likes of which he'd never seen, facing the throne as Jarl Ulfric addressed her.

"I am pleased that you decided to accept my invitation," said Ulfric, standing and descending from his throne. He took the woman's hand gently, bowing.

_Who is this, and why is Jarl Ulfric is bowing to her?_ Iver wondered.

"I could not decline an invitation from Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," the woman said sweetly.

_That voice_…

A moment later the woman removed her helmet and her thick, auburn hair fell from its confines, swirling slightly as she ran her fingers through it to work out some of the tangles.

_Siri...!_

"I must say that it is an honor to stand before you," Ulfric continued. "A Dragonborn, in my lifetime…I'm sure you understand, kinsman. Forgive me, for I cannot seem to summon words to convey the magnitude of this blessing."

At Ulfric's words, Iver couldn't help but stagger backward. Siri? The Dragonborn?

Turning away, he walked briskly back into the barracks to change into street clothes. He would have Siri for his own once more; she would come to love him again. A thin smile spread across his lips as he began to form a plan.

_My Siri, my darling, the Dragonborn…_


	43. Snowstorm

Siri stood uncomfortably in Ulfric's war room, a glass of fine wine cradled in her hand. She watched as Ulfric spoke in a rapid undertone to Galmar before turning back to her, gesturing for her to approach the map.

There were so many places marked on the map that Siri didn't even know where to look.

_Why is he showing me their map?_

Ulfric seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, for he took a sip of his own wine before addressing her confusion.

"I'm sure you're curious about why I would show you my war map," he said, looking her in the eye. "I assure you, this map is not by any means comprehensive. But," he continued, "as a gesture of goodwill, I wanted to show you that I hope we can work together."

"I have pledged my loyalty to the Legion, Ulfric," said Siri. There was no sense in beating around the bush. He raised his free hand, acknowledging her statement.

"I have become aware," he said. "But I wanted to give you a chance to reconsider, kinsman. You are a true Nord, and not only that—the Dragonborn! What business do the Imperials have bossing you around? Are you to be nothing more than a footsoldier for the Imperial cause? Join me, and you can _lead_ the army. With your help, we can throw off the Imperial yoke and liberate Skyrim!"

Siri stared into the red liquid in her cup.

"What would you have me do now, then, Ulfric?" she asked quietly.

"As a test of your loyalty," he said pointedly, "I would have you accompany some of my men to Korvanjund. There rests the Jagged Crown of legend; I'm sure that you recognize its significance, kinsman. I know the Imperials are already on their way there, and I have dispatched a detachment as well. Join my men, bring me back the Crown, and battle your way to glory with us!"

* * *

><p>It was early evening, and Siri found herself stepping out of the Palace of the Kings and into the frigid Windhelm air. She had declined Ulfric's offer of a guest suite in the palace; instead she decided to make the overnight journey to Whiterun, lest she remain in the uncomfortable company of the man who wanted so desperately to sway her from her Imperial allegiances.<p>

The sun was setting on the horizon as Siri set out on the road. She was glad she had put on an extra wool tunic beneath her armor, because the nip in the air was especially bitter, and every once in a while an icy gust would rush across the path, causing Siri's eyes to tear up.

She had headed directly south, and now was grateful for the fact. Night had fallen, and the snow was getting deeper. She would have to stop in Kynesgrove for the night—there was no way she could safely make it home in these conditions.

She struggled through the snow, trying to keep her footing despite the blustery wind. She knew Kynesgrove couldn't be far.

Suddenly Siri felt a dead weight strike her mid-back and carry her down into the snow. Unable to help herself, she felt panic close its icy claws on her heart.

Her assailant stood up, a tight grip on her wrist as he jerked her onto her back. She could feel the snow seeping into the cracks in her armor, melting, soaking her clothes…

When her eyes fell upon his face, she was horrified.

"Iver," she screamed into the wind. "What are you doing?"

"I love you, Siri," he replied, shouting over the wind. He pulled her to her feet, his hand still tight on her arm. If it weren't for the bitter cold numbing her arm, Siri was sure she would have been in a great deal of pain.

"What?"

"You were meant to be mine," he said. "You…the _Dragonborn_…we were meant to be together, Siri. Your husband—that _brute_—he doesn't deserve you! Nobody else could possibly be worthy of you, my darling. My sweet…my Siri…"

Siri recoiled from the wild look in his eyes, trying to pull her arm away from him, but it was no use. He pulled her closer to him, until she found herself being held firmly against his chest. Although she tried to struggle, she couldn't escape.

"I know you love me too, Siri," he said. "You don't have to hide it any longer…you can be honest with me."

"I did love you, Iver," she growled. "I loved you, and you broke my heart. What was I supposed to think, when I walked in on you with…that _woman_? I thought we would be together forever, Iver. I gave myself to you—and for what? A few weeks of bliss, and then the agony of having my heart torn to pieces. I promised myself I would never make that mistake again."

Iver's face contorted into an almost bestial snarl. He seized her shoulders angrily.

"It's not a mistake," he cried. "Let me show you…I'll help you remember your love for me! Because there is no one else who deserves you, Siri. You were meant to be _mine!_"

Before Siri could express her rage at being considered Iver's property, she felt his lascivious fingers begin to pull at the straps of her armor.

_Oh Talos…_

She jerked violently, attempting to shake Iver's grasp on her, and managed to break away. She turned, running down the road as quickly as the snow would allow her to, attempting to get to Kynesgrove.

She sensed that something was wrong before she felt it: Iver threw himself at her, tackling her, pinning her in the snow once more. He forced her to remain in the snow, face-down, as he undid the buckles that held her breastplate together.

"I love you, Siri," he whispered into her ear, a hand stroking her cold cheek.

Overwhelmed by the situation and fatigued by trudging through the snow, Siri felt the frigid air beginning to take its toll. Her clothes were soaked, and even Nords were not completely resistant to the cold; soon she stopped struggling, slipping silently into unconsciousness.


	44. Kynesgrove

**A/N:** Iver really causes more trouble than he ought to. I have this nasty feeling that his luck will run out someday.

* * *

><p>"<em>Come on!"<em>

_She ducks under a low-hanging branch, reaching for his hand. He found something incredible, apparently, and simply has to show it to her._

_They walk for a very long time, ducking branches, pushing through the underbrush, until finally he stops._

"_What is it?" she asks, peering over his shoulder._

_They stand atop a ridge in the woods, and in the distance she can see water sparkling. It is sunset, and the lake ahead reflects the deep pinks, oranges, and purples that make up the sky._

"_Oh wow, Iver, is that Lake Ilinata?" she asks, fascinated. He turns back to her, a gentle smile on his lips; his eyes are soft as they come to rest on her, but she doesn't understand why. He has never looked at her this way before._

"_Are you okay?" she giggles. "You look like someone smacked you upside the head with a skeever!"_

_All he can do is smile back. Her innocence and lighthearted disposition only add to the burning in his heart. He loves her, by Talos. She is the best thing that has ever happened to him._

_Before he realizes what he's doing, Iver puts his hands on the back of Siri's head and brings his lips to hers. She is surprised, and doesn't react at first; soon, though, she gives in, reciprocating, leaning into his kiss and draping her arms around his neck._

_She doesn't know how long they've been standing there, but eventually Iver breaks the kiss off, pulling back. He looks a little sheepish as he takes a step back. _

"_I—I'm sorry," he says, looking at the ground. "I don't know what—"_

_Before he can finish his sentence, Siri takes his hand. She puts a finger under his chin, bringing his eyes back up to meet hers once more._

_He loves her eyes; they are deep blue, like the water of the lake behind him, and so large and trusting. As he looks into them once more, she smiles at him, almost mischievously._

"_I didn't know," she says. He looks at her curiously, not sure what she means. Suddenly, something changes behind her eyes—the modesty that had been there before is replaced by something more alluring, more complex. It only remains for a moment, though, before it is gone again._

_She smiles innocently at him once more, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. He smiles again, broadly, and envelops her in a hug._

"_I like you a lot, Siri," he says._

_Her face is pressed against his chest, but he manages to make out her words._

"_I like you a lot too, Iver," she murmurs._

* * *

><p>Siri groaned, stirring slightly.<p>

_Where am I?_

She was warm and dry, lying underneath a heap of furs, but as she began to recall the events that transpired on the road, she sat bolt upright, horror clouding her mind.

_He didn't—_

She felt two strong hands on her shoulders and immediately began to struggle.

"Whoa, whoa, Siri," came a reassuring voice. It was Beirir. "Calm down. It's just me." He gestured to Iddra, and she brought over a cup of water.

Siri accepted the water, drinking it quickly as Beirir arranged the pillows behind her to be a backrest. Now sitting up, Siri could see the worry in her brother's eyes.

"What happened?" she asked at last. Beirir shook his head darkly, looking down at the floor.

"I was in Windhelm on business when I heard that you had just left for Whiterun. I tracked you south, but the snowstorm was getting rather harsh, and I was having a difficult time catching up with you. At some point I realized that I wasn't the only one following you, and that's when I managed to catch up to you at last—except that I was too late. This man…he had you pinned in the snow, and your armor was thrown in a heap nearby. So I yelled and ran toward him, but the filthy coward fled before I could get to him." He heaved a sigh, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to hold back tears.

_Tears? Beirir doesn't cry!_

"I found you…" he continued quietly, "facedown in the snow. You were beginning to turn blue, and you were unconscious…so I gathered your armor and brought you here. We're in Kynesgrove," he said. "Iddra changed you into dry clothes, and we moved the bed out here by the fire so you would warm up. I was so scared, Siri. You were so cold…."

His voice trailed off and he looked at her intently before standing with a sigh.

"You'll spend the night out here, sleeping by the fire," he said. "In the morning, I'll go back to Whiterun with you. I've left some healing and stamina potions by your bed—drink them tonight, and I'm sure you'll be back to your usual self in the morning." A smile flitted across his face.

"Good night, brother," she said.

He leaned down to hug her.

"Sleep well, sister."


	45. Anger

The road to Whiterun was still deep in snow by the time Siri and Beirir left Kynesgrove the next morning. Although Siri had recovered impressively since the night before, she was still a little fatigued; fortunately the snow had stopped, and with his impressive skill in destruction magic, Beirir was able to melt away much of the snow on the paths.

"Beirir," Siri asked finally, "what…what happened? You know, out on the road?"

"Nothing more than what I've told you already," he said. "Don't worry, that brute didn't make it any farther than your armor. By the time I reached you, you were lying in the snow in your woolens—soaked to the bone, a little roughed up, but otherwise safe."

Silence reigned for a few more minutes as they walked on, skirting Gallows Rock and continuing west, toward the river. Finally, when he decided Siri wasn't going to speak, Beirir broke the silence once more.

"Who was it?" he asked. Siri flinched at the question, looking down at the ground.

"If I tell you, what are you going to do?" she asked quietly.

When she looked up, her gaze met Beirir's. He could see the pain in her eyes, and she could see the anger in his.

He knew who it was. Who else could it be?

* * *

><p>Siri went to bed early that night, retiring to the Harbinger's quarters in Jorrvaskr before the moon had appeared in the night sky. Vilkas watched her retreat down the stairs to the living quarters before turning back to the table and sitting beside Beirir.<p>

"Thank the Divines you were there," Vilkas growled into his mug of mead. "Are you sure it was…?"

"It was certainly Iver. The way she was acting…she's terrible at keeping secrets. But what kills me is that she could easily have killed him, if she'd wanted to—I have never worried about Siri, not really, because I know she can take care of herself. But she didn't fight him; not really. And that's what scares me. She let him get the best of her."

Vilkas slammed a fist down on the table, causing mead to splash in mugs and food to jump off plates.

"What are you saying?" he yelled angrily. "Are you saying she wanted this to happen? Are you saying she purposely failed to defend herself?"

Beirir snorted humorlessly. "No, nothing like that. But I know she is capable of taking on an assailant, killing one, even. Ysmir's beard, she could have _shouted_ him off her! But she didn't." The assassin took a deep draught of mead before speaking once more. "Iver is dangerous," he said. "He loved Siri, I don't doubt that; but his guilt turned his love into an obsession. He doesn't realize that he is no longer the man Siri loved, and that she will never love him again."

Vilkas remained silent, staring hatefully into the bottom of his mug of mead. Beirir rose, resting a hand on Vilkas's shoulder.

"You are the man who holds Siri's heart now," he said. "And frankly, I don't think she could have made a better choice."

* * *

><p>Beirir had returned to Breezehome for the night, and most of the Companions had already retired to their beds. Vilkas, however, was stalking about the courtyard of Jorrvaskr. He loved Siri more than anything in the world, and the fact that he hadn't been there to protect her was absolutely maddening. Finally his anger grew too great, and he drew his sword to take it out on a practice dummy. He didn't notice his brother come into the courtyard.<p>

Farkas had sensed that something was amiss with his twin. Now he stood, watching his brother batter the practice dummy mercilessly, and he knew that his intuition had been correct.

"Vilkas," he said finally, and his brother started.

"Farkas!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing out here?"

"You seem troubled, brother. What's wrong?"

"You heard what happened to Siri. I wasn't there for her, Farkas. I didn't protect her. She could have been violated, she could have died in the snow, and I wasn't there!"

Vilkas spun about, striking viciously at the dummy. So great was his anger that his sword buried itself in the wood, lodging in the middle of the target painted on its chest.

"If I ever come across that man again, I will kill him," Vilkas snarled. "I will make sure that he never touches my Siri again."


	46. Repercussions

His head was pounding, and his wrists were killing him. How long he had been here, he had no idea; he had very little recollection of anything after returning to Windhelm. He was in a dungeon of some sort—this much he knew—but he hadn't seen another person in the entire time he had been conscious. Wearily he opened his eyes to look around the room once more.

It was a damp stone room, and empty sets of manacles hung from the walls. Two torture racks were situated opposite the hallway leading into the room; there was dried blood _everywhere_—on the walls, on the floor, splattered across the manacles and dripped down the racks. Iver could not suppress a shudder of horror.

The deafening silence was broken by purposeful footsteps coming down the hall. At this sound, Iver began to struggle against the shackles holding him to the wall. When he looked up, he saw a tall Redguard standing before him, wearing an unsettling smirk as he eyed Iver appraisingly.

"Well, well," he said. "Someone's finally awake."

His voice was a deep rumble, and Iver found him immensely unsettling. The imprisoned Nord opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled whimper. He had never been so frightened in his entire life.

"My dear brother has asked me to keep an eye on you," the Redguard continued, seeing that his prisoner was at a loss for words. "He asked me to summon him as soon as you regained consciousness." He turned back to the corridor.

"Listener!"

The word surged in Iver's ears, but he heard nothing—not the sound of footsteps or the rustle and clank of armor.

The wait seemed interminable.

* * *

><p><em>He is walking toward the Stone Quarter. The bright sun shines through the clouds today, making the morning seem that much more pleasant. He wonders where she is today, and remembers when they would spend time together in perfect weather like this. The thought makes him a little sad, and he tosses aside the apple core he has been working on.<em>

_He reaches the Stone Quarter and his friend flags him down._

"_Iver!" she calls happily. Though she is slaving away over the forge—hard work, even for the most seasoned smiths—she is nevertheless always pleased to see him. He is glad that he has found such a true friend in Hermir Strong-Heart._

"_Hello, Hermir!" he replies, walking up to the smithy. Hermir dunks the red-hot iron she is working into the water bath before setting her tools aside and hugging him._

"_So," she begins as she pulls away from him, "any news from your…friend?"_

_Iver fails to notice the edge in her voice as she mentions Siri, and with it misses her hidden anger. He pulls another apple out of his rucksack and bites into it._

"_No," he says. "Not a word." Then he lowers his voice, looking about the marketplace to make sure no one is listening to them before he continues once more._

"_I heard that the Aretino boy managed to summon the Dark Brotherhood," he whispers. _

_Hermir looks up at him. "I heard the same," she says. "Their Listener heard his prayers, I suppose."_

"_Listener?" Iver inquires, unsure of what she means. Hermir looks uncomfortable, and Iver leans closer to her._

"_The Listener is sort of the leader of the Dark Brotherhood," she says. "They say the Night Mother hears people's prayers and speaks of them only to the Listener. That's how they receive contracts."_

_Iver doesn't wonder why Hermir knows so much about the Dark Brotherhood. All that he remembers of the conversation later is the role of the unsettling figure known as the Listener._

* * *

><p>The Redguard remained where he was, standing before Iver with a disquieting grin on his face.<p>

"Has he awakened, Nazir?"

The voice didn't seem to have come from anywhere in particular, instead filling the entire room; Iver began to quake in his chains.

"Yes, Listener. Our guest is conscious once more."

Iver cried out in horror at the figure suddenly standing before him: the man had appeared out of thin air. There was no way Iver could have forgotten him; the same cold smile was evident in his eyes, despite most of his face being hidden, and that dagger…that eerie, glowing dagger still hung on his belt.

"You know," the man said, "I was really hoping you would learn to behave yourself. All you needed to do was leave her alone. But you couldn't, and now look what's happened."

"What do you want with me?" Iver asked angrily, finding his voice at last. "I haven't wronged you! Let me go!"

"Oh, I can't do that, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, you _have_ wronged me, and I intend to exact revenge. It's only fair," the assassin replied, stepping closer to his prey.

"Wh—what have I done to _you?_" Iver cried incredulously.

A wave of horror washed over him a moment later as the assassin removed his cowl.

He certainly recognized this man—the messy, auburn hair; the tall, lean figure; but most of all, those eyes. Those eyes that also belonged to…_her_…

"No…no, please!"

Iver thrashed about, trying to free himself from the cuffs that held him to the wall. Beirir's eyes glinted in the light of the torches as he reveled in Iver's terror; behind the Listener, Iver could hear Nazir the Redguard chuckling at the sight.

"Do you remember now? Do you know how you have wronged me?"

"Beirir, please…I didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Beirir asked, his voice becoming more saccharine as he cocked his head to the side. "Didn't realize what you were doing?"

Iver nodded his head vigorously. "I—I didn't know! You have to believe me!"

"Tsk, tsk," Beirir chided. "Ignorance is no excuse, my friend. Besides, I find your claim a little hard to believe…"

He took another step toward Iver, and when he spoke his voice was a cold whisper.

"Do you know how I found my baby sister on the road to Kynesgrove?"

Beirir drew his dagger from his belt.

"She was facedown in the deep, cold snow…"

He laid the flat of his blade against Iver's cheek, and the man flinched away from the cold ebony.

"Her woolens were soaked through when I reached her, and her armor discarded; her lips were blue, and she was shaking terribly." He smiled sweetly as he watched Iver quivering with fear, attempting to shrink back into the wall and disappear. Beirir leaned closer, his warm breath tickling Iver's ear.

"You're shaking too," he hissed. "Just like she was."


	47. The Jagged Crown

**A/N:** It's been a while since Siri did a real quest! This chapter was a lot of fun to write, I hope you all enjoy it :)

* * *

><p>Snow had settled in in the northern lands of Skyrim, from Dawnstar all the way to the ruins of Volunruud. Vantus Loreius had to harvest his crop early to save it from perishing in the sudden cold snap, and pilgrimages to the Weynon Stones ceased: with the snow came ice wraiths and frost trolls, and none but the most skilled fighters would stand a chance against the beasts, having been hardened by harsh life in the bitter cold of the Skyrim north. It was into this weather that Siri was to venture only a week after returning to Whiterun, and Vilkas was not pleased.<p>

The door to Breezehome whipped open, carried by an unusually chilly wind. The fire in the hearth shuddered at the intrusion as the bulky Nord hurried inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. He was carrying a package bound in brown paper as he dropped his cloak on a chair, kicked off his boots, and hurried upstairs to his wife.

Siri was standing in the bedroom rifling through the drawers of the wardrobe when Vilkas rounded the banister, and looked at him with a smile before returning to her search. Vilkas placed the package he was carrying atop the dresser, looking curiously at his wife.

"What are you looking for?" he asked finally as he heard her nails scrape the bottom of the wooden drawer. She sighed in frustration.

"I'm looking for some good woolens. In this cold, I'll need something warm underneath my armor. The trip to Korvanjund is a long one," she said before returning to her search. Vilkas laid a hand gently on her shoulder, gesturing to the brown package.

"I just bought you a new set," he said. "I tried Adrienne's, but they didn't have any, so I walked up to Belethor's. These should keep you warm on your trip."

Siri pushed the drawer shut and tore the paper off her new clothes. She was surprised at how nice they were: the outside layer was leather—waterproof, to protect from falling snow, and on the inside, the clothes were lined with mammoth hide.

"Vilkas, how much did these cost?" she asked, astonished. Mammoth hide was not easy to come by, and as a result was not cheap. Only the finest traveling clothes were lined with mammoth fur.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "I want to make sure you stay warm and dry on the long trek to Korvanjund."

As Vilkas finished speaking, the door to Breezehome banged open again, and Siri heard heavy steps on the wooden paneling of the first floor. Lydia hurried downstairs to see who it was; her excited babbling, uncharacteristic of the usually-stoic housecarl, told Siri at once who the unexpected visitor was.

"Oh," said Vilkas, almost as an afterthought, "Farkas and I will be traveling with you."

* * *

><p>It had taken Siri about an hour to assemble her things: a new Daedric war-axe, a belated wedding gift from Beirir; a number of healing potions, as well as potions to restore magicka and stamina; a few poisons; and a few days' rations. She pulled on her new traveling clothes, enjoying the feel of the washed, combed mammoth fur brushing softly against her skin, and fastened on her Dragonscale armor over them. She pulled on some thick, wool socks before stepping into her boots and hoisting her rucksack onto her back, and finally descended to the main room of Breezehome.<p>

Farkas and Vilkas were standing by the door, both fully clad in armor and sporting heavy-looking rucksacks. Siri set her jaw grimly, pushing between the two men and out into the unusually harsh weather.

Siri had set a fast pace when they struck out from Whiterun, and Farkas and Vilkas had trailed behind her a little way on the path. Vilkas could tell that his wife was not pleased at the escort, and so he and his twin tried to give her a little space on the road, lest she feel crowded.

Although she loved both men very much, Siri was boiling with rage. Did Vilkas honestly think her this weak? Did he think her unable to protect herself from assailants? She sighed, finding herself unable to place any blame upon Farkas. He was probably just doing Vilkas a favor, after all.

Night had fallen by the time the trio reached Korvanjund, but the sky was completely overcast, and the light reflected between the clouds was so bright that it was almost as bright as day. The tall stone spires protruding from the landscape and the stonework on the ancient ruin were made even more beautiful by the odd light, and Siri couldn't help but stop and admire it.

"Good to see you, auxiliary!"

A voice interrupted Siri's reverie and she turned to find none other than the Nord listkeeper from Helgen addressing her. When he saw her face, he paled; a moment later his face broke into a relieved smile and he stepped forward.

"You…you were at Helgen! The Nord woman from Ulfric's cart! I can't believe you made it out alive—so few people survived!"

"Yes, I survived, no thanks to you and that captain of yours," Siri said, unable to keep disdain from sneaking into her voice. At her words, the Nord man looked away, clearly ashamed.

"What the Captain wanted to do was wrong," he said. "We had no reason to send you to the block." He looked up at her. "But she didn't make it out of Helgen—probably got charred and eaten by that damn dragon. So I suppose in a way she paid for what she did."

_More than you'll ever know_, thought Siri, thinking back to the one time she had killed in cold blood, remembering the feeling of the captain's blood on her hands, the sight of the woman struggling for air as her lifeblood frothed from the wound in her throat. She smiled blandly at the legionnaire.

"Well I suppose I don't have to worry about running into her, then," she said.

"My name's Hadvar, by the way," said the Nord man, taking Siri's hand in a firm handshake.

"I'm Siri," she obliged, and then, gesturing to her companions, "and this is my husband, Vilkas, and his twin brother, Farkas." Hadvar nodded to the men—both much bigger and stronger-looking than he was—before turning his attention back to Siri.

"Come," he said. "The Legate will want to start our assault right away now that you're here."

Siri followed Hadvar over to the small group of legionnaires mustered near the Shrouded Grove. There were some young, fresh faces, as well as some older, more battle-worn men in the crowd; but every man's attention was focused on Legate Rikke, who stood on the slope of the hill.

"What's the situation?"

The Legate paid Hadvar and Siri little mind as she questioned one of her men, a grizzled Legionnaire with a gray beard.

"Stormcloaks were already camped out around the entrance when we got here," the man replied in a gruff, gravelly voice. "They don't know we're here yet, though."

Legate Rikke exhaled. "Well, that's something, at least. No matter; we have the element of surprise." She turned to Siri, surprising the younger Nord, who had assumed her presence had gone unnoticed. "Prepare to move out, auxiliary," she said solemnly. Siri nodded, drawing her war-axe and holding her shield at the ready.

Rikke walked toward the ruin, up the curve of the hill, before stopping once more and turning about.

"Listen up, Legionnaires," she said, her voice tough as steel. "Those Stormcloaks are here for the same reason we are. Ulfric the Pretender wants that crown, but damn it, we're not going to let him have it." She took a deep breath, looking resolvedly into the faces of each of her soldiers before continuing. "I realize some of you may know men on the other side. But remember this: they are the enemy now, and will not hesitate to end your lives."

"A lesson all too true," muttered Vilkas to Farkas.

"General Tullius is counting on us to bring back the Jagged Crown," Rikke said, her voice growing louder and fiercer as she spoke. "And that's exactly what we're going to do. Now, let's show those rebels what real soldiers look like!"

Several Stormcloaks had been guarding the exterior of Korvanjund, but they had fallen easily to Siri's blade. She and her comrades had entered the ruin and immediately come across a pack of Stormcloaks; as they fought their way through the ancient ruin, Siri found herself stopping every once in a while to admire the elegant, if somewhat rough-hewn, stonework in the vast halls. The vaulted ceilings and narrow bridges were made more dramatic by the low light of the torches burning in the sconces as the cries of battle echoed off the ancient stones.

They pushed onward, fighting their way through until they reached a large door that Siri recognized immediately. It was almost identical to the one in Bleak Falls Barrow.

"What is this?" she heard one of the legionnaires ask. Without a word, Siri began scanning the floor, praying to Talos that the claw that unlocked it was somewhere nearby.

Sure enough, she was able to locate the claw—fashioned of ebony—after a few moments of searching: it was clutched in the hands of a dead Stormcloak soldier who lay by the door. She pried loose the man's fingers—already stiff with rigor mortis—and looked at the markings on the claw. A moment later, she had moved the rings on the door to their proper locations, and the legionnaires looked at her in astonishment as she placed the ebony claw in her rucksack. Rikke, though, merely clapped Siri on the back before gesturing for her men to continue onward.

It was not long before the legionnaires opened the door into a crypt. Tall black coffins lined the walls, reflecting the light of torches unsettlingly. As Siri explored the room, searching for a way to lift the portcullis, she heard the telltale cracking of the coffin lids popping off as their inhabitants came to life once more.

"Draugr!" she yelled, before jumping off a ledge and burying her blade in the neck of a Draugr wight.

The legionary detachment broke into chaos as the younger men ran about, trying to keep away from the walking dead that had reanimated at their presence; meanwhile, the older legionnaires stood their ground, clashing with the skeletal men clad in ancient Nordic armor.

After a brief but intense battle, the group continued to push forward. The air grew heavier and more and more stale, and Siri had the feeling that they were approaching the Jagged Crown…and whatever happened to be guarding it.

She gulped as her eyes confirmed her fears: for there, sitting upon a throne in the center of the room, was a Draugr deathlord, the Jagged Crown perched atop his motionless head. She tiptoed up to him carefully, her comrades not far behind her, and gently lifted the crown, stowing it away in her rucksack.

The crypt dissolved into chaos once more as the tomb lids fractured. Two Draugr scourges stepped from their resting places; as his minions threw themselves upon the terrified legionnaires, the Draugr deathlord stood, giving what Siri could only liken to dark laughter, before coming at her with a giant battleaxe.

The cries of her fellow soldiers echoed in her ears as she clashed with the deathlord. His horned helmet obscured most of his face—but those eyes, the eyes that glowed an unsettling blue in the darkness of the crypt, were fixed upon her. She had taken quite a few hits; finally she blocked one with her shield, the Draugr's axe bouncing harmlessly off the dragon scales, but she was staggered by the force of the blow and stumbled back. The deathlord gave another eerie laugh and raised his axe for a killing blow.

_FUS…RO…DAH!_

The Draugr deathlord flew across the cavernous room, striking the far wall with a sickening thud. Siri staggered to her feet and chased after it, landing blow after blow mercilessly until the Draugr gave one final growl and the blue light in its eyes faded to nothing.

She turned back to the group, surveying the damage. Two younger legionnaires were propped up against the stone pillars in the room, nursing various wounds; two more legionnaires, one young and one old, were stretched out on the floor, eyes shut in death. While Rikke organized men to carry the fallen from the tomb, Siri knelt beside the two young men, calling up her restoration magic, and swiftly closed their wounds.

Before the group departed from the ruin, Rikke stood before her men, saddened by the loss of her comrades, but heartened by the legion's success in retrieving the Jagged Crown.

"We've won a victory today, men," she said. "We have recovered the Jagged Crown. Ulfric will never lay hands upon it now, and these brave men," she gestured to the two fallen legionnaires who lay on makeshift stretchers, "have not given their lives in vain this day!"

The reply to Rikke's short speech was a unanimous roar from the remaining legionnaires.

"For the Empire!"


	48. The Battle for Whiterun

**A/N: **Sorry for the absurdly long update time! Immediately after my last update I had finals (which were taxing), and then my mom kept interrupting my productive spells by making me unpack my stuff...and I'm now abroad for a bit. But don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this story, and now that it's summer I hope to update much more often!

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><p>"Ulfric will see <em>Sovngarde<em> before he sees a Stormcloak victory over Whiterun!"

Siri was fuming.

The fool had threatened Whiterun.

Since her youth, Siri had loved the serene forests of Falkreath—the smell of sawdust hanging on the air, the calls of birds echoing through the sky. Falkreath had been her home for so many happy years. But Ulfric's threat to Whiterun made her realize that her home was no longer in the magnificent woodlands of the southern hold: Whiterun was her home now, where the people she loved lived. After so much heartbreak and hardship, the people of Whiterun had made her whole again.

She was in a rage, stomping through Breezehome, hurling her axe at the uprights that supported the roof. With each throw the metal sank into the wood with a dull thud, and she retrieved it each time, turning about to take aim at a different column. Vilkas merely sat upon the bed, watching his wife take out her anger on their home, unsure of what he should be doing. Finally she turned back to him, exhausted, and collapsed on the bed.

"He can't do this, Vilkas. I won't let him. When I stepped out of Helgen, Jarl Balgruuf showed me such hospitality, despite the fact that I'd been bound for the headsman, branded a criminal by the Imperials." She sat up angrily. "He will not set foot inside this city while I still breathe!"

As Vilkas laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly, Lydia's footsteps creaked on the stairs. She turned the corner, her face grave.

"My Thane," she said, her voice trembling slightly, "the Jarl has requested your presence in Dragonsreach. Scouts have sighted Ulfric's force marching west, toward the city."

* * *

><p>Somehow Jarl Balgruuf managed to keep his cool during the brief meeting with Legate Cipius. From what Siri had surmised, Legate Rikke was already out in front of Whiterun, rallying the Imperial troops and holding the gateway in preparation for the Stormcloak assault.<p>

She pushed her way through the throngs of people rushing terrified through the streets, past Ysolda and Severio, watching Carlotta hurry Mila into the house, and felt the anger boiling up from her core. These were _her_ people—what right did Ulfric have to put her friends and neighbors in danger? She remembered bitterly the day he had sought her allegiance, when she had accepted his invitation to the Palace of the Kings: his attempt to sway her to the Stormcloaks, to have her turn her back upon the Empire she'd sworn allegiance to, made her feel physically ill.

As she approached, the guards pulled open the city gates for her, and she smiled grimly. Ulfric the Pretender would not take Whiterun while she still drew breath.

* * *

><p>She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Rikke, breathing deeply as she watched the Stormcloak columns advancing on the entrance to Whiterun.<p>

"I see Ulfric has left his dirty work to someone else," commented Siri dryly. "He's not leading the advance, the coward."

"Ulfric is many things," Rikke said quietly, "but I would not call him a coward. We fought side-by-side in the Great War, Ulfric and I. The man knew valor…once."

Siri stole a sideways glance at Rikke, and was astonished to see a single, shining tear run down the hardened Legate's cheek. Then, in the distance, she heard a drumming begin, and the Stormcloaks began to advance. Rikke crouched down into her battle-stance, the men behind her following suit.

"Give no ground, men!" the Legate called. "The Stormcloaks shall not breach Whiterun this day!"

The legionnaires and Whiterun guards behind her gave an assenting cry, and lines of men began advancing to the barricades, halting just behind the sharpened wooden stakes and waiting. Soldiers atop the ramparts readied boiling oil to drop on the first lines of rebels, and archers on the city walltops pulled their bows taut.

"Ready, Dragonborn?" Rikke asked, but when she turned to look at Siri, the woman was gone. Though shocked, she was unable to act, as the rebels had begun to move toward Whiterun's gates.

The Stormcloaks advanced quickly, at more of a jog than a march. Their light armor, while it provided very little in the way of protection, did allow them to move quickly, and soon they were upon the walls.

A chorus of pained screams broke out as the first few vats of boiling oil were tipped over the walls, spilling down onto the Stormcloaks beneath. Rikke and her men raised their shields, blocking the spray as Stormcloaks collapsed, screaming in pain as the oil seared their flesh. The archers released their first volley of arrows, cutting down about a dozen more enemy soldiers. Finally, after the secondary vats of oil were dumped on the front lines, the first wave finally collided with Rikke and her column.

The battlefield was a frenzy of metal, with the soldiers on each side swinging madly at their enemies. Blue and red intermingled as the Stormcloaks penetrated the Imperial column, and individual rebels began attempting to scale the ramparts. Rikke, who had been locked in combat with a particularly stubborn young man, balked as he dodged around her, his light armor affording him an advantage in agility, and sprinted for the steps leading to the top of the archway where the barricades, now destroyed, had stood.

Seeing that there was nowhere to go, that this section of the walls did not lead where he had hoped, the man turned around, squaring his shoulders and facing Rikke. A brief but intense duel ended with Rikke spilling the young man's intestines on the cool stones; she turned halfway about, intending to head for the steps, when an otherworldly sound caught her ear. She stared, stupefied, at the spot whence the noise had come. Indeed, the entire battlefield seemed to go still for a split second as Siri emerged from her Invisibility with a horrific shout.

_KRII!_

A shimmering purple wave of air pushed through the Stormcloak lines, and the men began to shake. Some dropped their weapons, others staring stupidly at their hands as magical purple light snaked across their bodies.

She had _shouted!_

It was a single word, one she had learned after Beirir had shown her his copy of the word wall in the Falkreath sanctuary, now destroyed. The word had glowed on Beirir's charcoal rubbing, and the strange, shimmering lines had wended their way through the air, reaching for her, imparting to her the word _krii_—kill, in the dragons' tongue.

She seized her opportunity as her foes' defenses were lowered. Rikke saw Siri's blade cut through men as though they were nothing more than practice dummies, watched as Stormcloak men and women were slain, torsos and legs landing feet from one another as the Dragonborn cut a fearsome swath through their weakened ranks. The Imperials stood, astonished, until the voice of one man rose above the chaos.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" cried the soldier. "The Dragonborn's given us a golden opportunity!"

With that, the Imperials broke from their trance and surged at the Stormcloaks, cutting through their weakened armor easily, taking advantage of the edge the Dragonborn had given them.

Finally routed, the remaining Stormcloak soldiers—still glowing with the effect of the Dragonborn's shout—fled from the walls they had so recently been attempting to conquer. Some stumbled and fell dead along the path as the fearsome power of _krii_ sapped their little remaining health; others, luckier, continued running until they were mere specks in the distance.

The Imperials broke into raucous cheering at the sight of the vanquished rebels fleeing for their lives. Some lifted Siri into the air, cheering; others, lighting up torches, ran out to burn the trebuchets the Stormcloaks had been using to fire flaming missiles into the town itself.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen by the time Siri managed to break from the throngs and return to Breezehome, her heart heavy and her body aching and tired. In addition to the military casualties—men whose bodies lay upon pyres around the city, awaiting their funerals in the morning—there had been a civilian casualty: Severio Pelagia had been killed in his home by a projectile that had smashed through his roof and crushed him from the waist down.<p>

Siri closed the front door carefully behind her, dismissing Lydia to her room for the night as the worried Housecarl fussed about her Thane. Exhausted, emotionally wearied, Siri trudged up the stairs and turned the corner to her room, where she found Vilkas, his nose stuck in a worn copy of _The Real Barenziah, vol. 2_. When he saw his wife, beaten and bloodied, he dropped his book and hurried to her.

"Siri, are you okay?" he asked. He immediately pulled his Restoration magic to his hands, healing as many of her wounds as he could before depleting his magic.

Without a word she leaned forward, catching Vilkas's mouth in a deep, longing kiss.

"You know I love you for your words, Vilkas," she whispered pleadingly in his ear. "But I do not want any of them tonight. I need you to show me that I am still alive—that there is more in this world than just killing."

Vilkas studied his wife for a moment before relenting. Tonight, he would prove to her everything that she wished. There would be time enough for words tomorrow.


	49. Reconnaissance

**A/N:** OH MY GOD I am so sorry this took such a long time. Finals happened at the end of the year and then I just...fell into a slump and couldn't for the life of me stir up my creativity. But here it is, the next chapter, and I assure you most vehemently that the next update will not take NEARLY as long...

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><p>"Valgeir! <em>Valgeir!<em>"

Slowly the man became aware of himself. He was lying down on a hard cot, his eyes shut. It was damp and a bit chilly wherever he was, and with this realization came another: he was wearing nothing more than rags, and tattered ones at that.

He opened his eyes. He was on his back, staring at a stone ceiling. He turned his head to the side, pushing himself upright on the cot, and found himself caged in a jail cell, face-to-face with a fierce-looking female Orc.

"Get up," she snarled. "You're supposed to be working in the mine."

_Mine?_

"Come on. You're serving out your sentence, criminal. After what you did down at Karthwasten—I can't believe _anyone_ would burn down the poor miners' barracks!—you're going to be in here for a long time." She leaned forward, leering at him through the bars. "You know why they brought you to Cidhna Mine, Valgeir?"

The man stood slowly, speechless, eyes fixed warily at the Orc standing outside his cell door.

"Here in Markarth," she continued, her voice almost gleeful, "there isn't a thing made of wood. The city's built of stone. Convenient, isn't it? Stone doesn't burn, so it looks like you're out of luck."

She pulled the key from her belt, unlocking the cell door and pushing it open.

"My name's not Valgeir, you know," he said, his brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and alarm.

The Orc merely laughed at him. "Yeah, they told me you'd say that. Crazy skooma addict."

Without another word she turned on her heel, striding away.

"You'd do well to follow me, Valgeir," she called over her shoulder, and at once he set off after her, speeding up as reality began to sink in.

"Hey," he called. "Hey, wait! My name isn't Valgeir! My name is Iver!"

* * *

><p>"You look beautiful, my love."<p>

Siri stood before her husband and the inn owner of Riverwood, a short, fierce woman named Delphine.

"I look like a fool," she replied.

Beside her, a carriage was waiting, bound for the Thalmor Embassy. She stood by the stables at Katla's Farm, just outside Solitude.

Vilkas kissed her cheek softly. "You look like…" he began, before his face creased with a small chuckle.

"See! I knew it!" she said, looking disgustedly at her outfit. "I look ridiculous, and they're never going to let me into the party because they're going to see through me right away."

"No, that's not it at all," he countered. "You just…look like someone who's attending a party to suck up to the Thalmor ambassador."

"Well I'm getting back into my armor as soon as possible," Siri grumbled. "This dress is stifling and these boots are so uncomfortable—I don't see how rich women can stand this kind of outfit!"

Delphine was beginning to lose patience. She glanced up at the sky, noting the position of the sun, before looking back at Siri.

"That'll have to do, I'm afraid," she said. "You need to get going or you'll be late. Here's your invitation," she handed Siri a small rectangular piece of parchment, "and make sure not to draw attention to yourself or Malborn. The more they notice you, the more dangerous it is for you to be there."

With these less-than-comforting parting words, Siri climbed into the back of the carriage. She gave Vilkas's hand one last squeeze.

"I'll be out of there as quickly as possible," she said. "I should be back at the Winking Skeever tonight."

"I won't rest easy until you're back safe in my arms," he replied.

* * *

><p>The carriage lumbered awkwardly up the mountainside from Solitude to the Thalmor Embassy, and Siri watched numbly as the countryside rolled by. Of all the things she'd done since returning to Skyrim, this scared her the most: infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy on a reconnaissance mission was something only a madman would attempt, yet here she was, about to attempt it and hoping to Talos that it wouldn't cost her her life.<p>

When the carriage pulled to a stop at the top of the mountain Siri disembarked. For a moment she stood beside the horse-cart and pulled out a tiny bottle of mead, and, after checking to make sure nobody was watching her, she swished it around in her mouth before spitting it out. Then she turned back, breathing more easily as she noticed another man approaching the Embassy behind her: she wasn't the last person to arrive, then.

Her luck changed, however, immediately upon entering the magnificent building. No sooner had the door shut behind her than an Altmer woman had swept up to greet her.

"Welcome," she said silkily, and a feeling of immense unease immediately settled upon Siri's chest. "I am Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim. But I don't believe we've met…who, may I inquire, do I have the…er, pleasure of addressing?"

Siri immediately plastered an expression on her face that—she _hoped_, at least—was a mixture of awe and excitement. Trusting the mead on her breath to convince Elenwen that she was drunk, she leaned forward.

"Elenwen? Oh my goodness, I've heard so much about you!"

The Thalmor gave a thin, cold smile that didn't even reach her eyes.

"Have you? All good, I trust. But you have me at a disadvantage; I'm afraid I know nothing about you…" the woman hesitated, giving Siri an appraising stare that sent shivers up her spine. "Please," she continued. "Tell me more about yourself. What brings you to this…to Skyrim?"

Before any kind of nerves could shake Siri, she heard a familiar voice interject from behind the bar.

"Ambassador," came the voice, "we've run out of the Alto wine. Do I have your permission to uncork the Arenthia red?"

Siri could tell that Malborn's inquiry had flustered Elenwen, causing her confidence to waver ever so slightly. The Nord woman sensed that the Altmer was upset.

"Of course. I told you not to bother me with such trifles."

"Yes, Madame Ambassador," Malborn replied, and Siri could tell from the slight strain in his voice that the Bosmer was feeling the pressure of their situation.

Elenwen turned back to Siri.

"Forgive me," she said, "I must take my leave for now. But I am certain that we shall become better acquainted very soon."

The Thalmor retreated back into the party crowd, and Siri, breathing a silent sigh of relief, sidled into the main room, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself.


	50. Reminiscing

**A/N: **Sorry about the long update times...school started, so most of my time is dedicated to, you know, homework. Dunno what that's about...

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><p>It was late, and stars glinted high in the dark dome of the sky as a figure slid silently out the doors of Jorrvaskr and into the training yard. A light breeze stirred the foliage that lined the rear wall of the mead hall; above, clouds had begun to roll across the sky, their edges reflecting the brilliant white light of the moons.<p>

Aela savored the night air as she sat down on the porch behind Jorrvaskr. Before her, Dragonsreach loomed high over the Skyforge; to her right, just over the walls, the plains of Whiterun stretched endlessly away into the darkness. It had been on a night like this that she had first taken the beastblood from Skjor, and the despair and guilt she had felt immediately following his death surged forth once more. Wordlessly she fought the burning heat behind her eyes, willing herself not to cry, and reached for a mug of mead that sat abandoned on the wooden tabletop.

She had always been an independent woman: raised in the woods by her father, she had been wielding weapons since before she could even remember. She had killed her first wolf at eight, and at eleven had managed to take down a cave bear—though she had come away from the experience a bit worse for wear: the bear's claws had rent her abdomen, and she had been laid up for three months before her father would allow out hunting again. She had begun hunting alone at thirteen, and in the same year began intensive archery training. There was nothing the young huntress enjoyed more than a solitary training session: riding at a full gallop through the forests near her home, shooting at practice targets as she hurtled through the dense foliage.

It was this independence that Aela had always sought, even after joining the Companions. Her confidence and hardheaded individuality, born of years of hunting in the wilderness, proved to be valuable assets to the mercenary band, and she was invited to join the Circle not three years after her Trial, at the age of nineteen.

Of course the Huntress's wild, unfettered, primal nature had naturally drawn the attention of another: Skjor, the obdurate, often-reckless warrior who served as her forebear. Though he was old and she was young, they shared the passion of the hunt, and this connection grew into a deep, enigmatic bond between the two otherwise-solitary Companions.

As she sat thinking about Skjor, Aela hunched over, lost in her memories. She traced her fingers absently along the carvings decorating her mug, watching the mead within sparkle in the moonlight. Another breeze rustled through the nearby shrubbery, this one a bit colder than the last, causing Aela to shiver slightly.

Suddenly the Huntress started. Dropping her mead, she rolled forward; when she arose, her hand was on her dagger, and she was crouched in a battle stance, her wide eyes locked on the person who had interrupted her reverie.

Beirir sat on the step before her, his hand frozen in the air where not a moment before it had been resting on the Huntress's back in an attempt to warm her. He looked as though he was torn between bewilderment and mirth; a smirk turned up the corners of his mouth slightly, and his head was cocked, an eyebrow quirked in puzzlement.

Aela exhaled, sheathing her dagger and gazing warily at the Harbinger's brother.

"I apologize, Huntress," Beirir said, standing up, his hands raised in an apologetic manner. "I did not mean to startle you."

Now it was Aela who quirked an eyebrow; skepticism was evident upon her face as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Can I help you, Beirir?" she asked.

Beirir eyed Aela appraisingly for a moment, and the Huntress felt herself slightly unnerved by the intensity of his deep blue eyes. She felt almost as though he could see through her—as though her soul had been laid open to him like a book. She shifted uncomfortably.

"You know," said Beirir, turning away and sauntering toward the practice dummies, "I have spent a good deal of my life scrutinizing the people around me. In my line of work, it is quite necessary to be able to assess a person from afar—to be able to learn about someone's habits, his fears, his aspirations; the things he is good at, and the things he cannot seem to master."

Aela twitched. She was liking this conversation less and less with every word the Harbinger's brother uttered.

"I've been observing you, you see. And you have this…oh, how best to describe it? You have this subtle air of melancholy around you. It follows you everywhere, pervades your every action. The others fail to notice; you're rather good at disguising your emotions, making them especially difficult for the untrained eye to discern. But I—I make my living off reading people, and I can tell that there is sorrow buried in your heart."

By this point Beirir had turned to face Aela once more, the twin moons at his back. Aela felt his gaze resting heavily upon her, and a fresh wave of unease swept over her. How could he know so much about her? Had she been so careless? Left her feelings so unguarded?

"Please do not concern yourself with what you could have done to prevent me from learning these things about you—it has taken me weeks to arrive at these conclusions. You are a rather inscrutable woman, Aela," he said. "Strong. Solitary."

The Huntress lowered her arms, unsure of what to make of Beirir's words. She simply stood, staring at him with a sort of leery wonder.

"What do you want from me?" she asked defensively, her hand resting once more upon her dagger. This small gesture did not go unnoticed, and in the moonlight Aela could see the smirk on Beirir's lips widen slightly.

"Well," he said innocently, "you should just know that if you need a sympathetic ear, I recently suffered a grave loss as well—on the same scale as yours, I daresay."

"And what makes you think that I would talk to you of all people about my troubles?" Aela shot back. Anger had begun to seep through her system like poison: how could she have unintentionally allowed someone to see so far into her life? Her private affairs? Caught up in her rage, Aela failed to notice when Beirir vanished from right before her eyes. Another cool wind whipped suddenly through the courtyard, and as it passed, Aela felt a shiver run down her spine. He had disappeared. For a brief moment, she felt something rest lightly on her shoulder.

"If you change your mind," came a whisper, "I've been told that I am an _exceptional_ listener."

Aela turned and grasped at the air, attempting to seize the invisible hand that had only moments before rested upon her shoulder, but she was too late. The cool breeze settled down once more, and Beirir was gone.


	51. Diplomatic Immunity

Siri couldn't believe her eyes as she crept silently through the Thalmor Embassy. After Malborn had escorted her through the kitchen, she had heard him shut the door behind her with a click, and instantly she tightened her focus. She would need to be incredibly cautious if she was to escape from this Embassy alive—even moreso if she wanted to escape with her life _and_ the information Delphine had sent her in after. In her intense awareness of her surroundings, Siri realized just how opulently furnished the Embassy really was.

_They must have paid for all this with the gold they stole from the people they murdered_, Siri thought angrily. Steeling herself, she put on her Dark Brotherhood gloves and pulled the cowl's mask over her face. This mission would require finesse, grace, and subtlety; it was for these reasons that she had elected to leave her Dragonscale armor with Vilkas and Delphine, and had instead provided Malborn with her commandeered Dark Brotherhood armor.

Silently she strapped her ebony dagger to her side. It had been a gift from her father on her thirteenth birthday, the same birthday Beirir had gifted her with his Amulet of Talos, which she wore tucked underneath her armor.

_Talos preserve me…_

She killed the two Altmer soldiers hanging around the bar on the first floor before proceeding upstairs, where she managed to sneak up on the Thalmor wizard standing guard in the hallway. She clapped a hand over his mouth and slit is throat before gliding silently on; the wizard's unseeing eyes watched her retreat down the hallway, where she stopped only momentarily to treat the (admittedly minor) wounds inflicted upon her by the soldiers. For a moment she stared up at the stonework of the embassy building before shaking her head and moving on, disgusted by the opulence.

She had fought her way through the courtyard and finally into the basement of Elenwen's Solar, where she found a Thalmor wizard and another elven footsoldier torturing a man in one of the bloodspattered cells along the wall. Siri had just dispatched both of the Thalmor agents when the sound of footsteps on the wooden planks above her head alerted her to someone else's approach; moments later, the heavy wooden doors swung open and two Thalmor soldiers—decked out in opulent, gilded elven armor—escorted Malborn into the torture room. The Bosmer's face was inscrutable; his features were slumped in an emotionless deadpan as he walked forward, unto torture and almost certain death.

The candlelight flickered unsettlingly across the walls, casting long shadows that leapt about, surging upward, consuming most of the wall before pulling back, ceding the wall once more to the dim, yellow-orange light of the candles. It was in these shadows that Siri was able to sit unnoticed as the Thalmor agents walked by, unguarded, unsuspecting. It was from these shadows that Siri moved, silently, stalking her prey.

It was over in a matter of seconds. Siri's ebony dagger had done its job, and the two Thalmor agents lay twitching on the ground as their blood pumped forth, spilling onto the already-befouled floor. Siri felt an odd rush as she watched the new blood mingle with the old: exhilaration, perhaps, at the sense of justice. Four Thalmor agents lay dead in this basement now, dead by Siri's hand, their blood mixing with that of their prior victims, congealing in the frigid air of the torture chamber.

Quickly she checked Malborn over. He had a gash on his forehead and a sizeable bruise on his right arm, but these wounds were both easily healed and Siri handed the elf one of the healing potions from her pack. With Malborn taken care of she directed her attention once more to the emaciated Breton shackled to the wall—the unfortunate man whom Rulindil had been interrogating when Siri had entered the room.

She found herself immediately face-to-face with a figure whose approach she had not marked and at once leaped backward in surprise. A small yelp escaped her lips as her hand flew to her dagger.

To her surprise, the figure chuckled. He made no move toward her, nor did he reach for the bow on his back or the dagger on his hip. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and spoke to her. She could hear amusement in every syllable he uttered.

"So this is the famous Dragonborn, then."

He wore a type of armor that Siri had never seen before: a full matching set of black leather, it had multiple belts and straps crossing the torso, as well as two hefty leather shoulder-plates. The hood obscured a good deal of his head, but in the flickering candlelight Siri could see enough.

He was tall—taller than any other Khajiit Siri had met in her travels across Cyrodiil and Skyrim. As she gazed at him, she guessed that he was about as tall as the two Thalmor she had just killed. He stood at least a head taller than Siri herself; from what she could see, his fur was the same color as his armor: sable, though mottled with patches of brilliant silver here and there. He smiled, baring his fierce-looking teeth, and lowered his hood, revealing a mane shaved into a mohawk and ears that were heavily pierced. His whiskers were grouped together, bound by gold rings into a moustache of sorts. Upon his snout, running up across his left eye, Siri could see a series of four deep gouges—scars at whose origins she could only guess.

"Your brother has told me much about you," the Khajiit said. "He is a good friend of mine, you know."

"You know my brother?" Siri asked, careful not to use Beirir's name lest the Khajiit use it to bolster some lie he was about to tell her.

"Indeed. He and I have done a good amount of work together in the past. Beirir is one of my most…resourceful contacts. He has gotten several of my associates out of rather nasty situations."

"Who are you?" Siri asked, wondering what business her brother had with the man standing before her.

"I am called Ra'Zha," he said. "I am here to retrieve my associate from the Thalmor. It would seem that you have saved me the trouble of dealing with his captors," he added with a pointed glance behind Siri at the lifeless Thalmor agents. "So I will return the favor by telling you that I have already taken care of a frost troll that had taken up residence in the secret passage through which I gained entry."

"But what business do you have with my brother, Ra'Zha?" she pressed.

Ra'Zha seemed not to hear her and took a wide step toward the man shackled to the wall, releasing him from the fetters. The man – a Breton, by the look of him – collapsed to the floor before weakly hoisting himself onto his feet.

"Thank you both," he said.

"Come," said Ra'Zha. "We should depart before any more of your hosts decide to grace us with their presence."


	52. Flight from the Embassy

**A/N:** Hi guys. Sorry this one took so long, too. I still haven't forgotten about this story, I promise! Here's my next installment, and I promise there's more in the works :)

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><p>A chill wind swept across the road through Rorikstead, sending dirt and farm debris swirling over the worn paving stones. Two figures, both armored and formidable, appeared suddenly at the crest of the hill on the north end of town, moving purposefully, though at the same time seeming unhurried. One, a strong, stocky Nord man with scruffy brown hair that fell to his jawline and a faceful of stubble, seemed preoccupied with something; he would periodically run a hand through his shaggy mane, and the warpaint around his eyes was smeared, as though he hadn't slept properly in days. The other, a slight Breton woman whose fair hair was cinched back in a single tightly-woven braid, looked far less troubled than her companion, though her attention did turn skyward at regular intervals—with dragons now preying upon Skyrim for the first time in many eras, she did not want to be caught off guard.<p>

Vilkas knew Rorikstead well, having visited many times on Companions' business. He had most recently come with Ria to clear out the nearby shack of an eccentric Nord man named Lund. The man's wife had died, and he had taken to keeping skeevers as pets, retreating from the world of men and mer into his own little realm of solitude and despair. Eventually he died as well—the townsfolk whispered of suicide—at which point there was a noticeable uptick in the skeever population. Vilkas and Ria had dealt with the infestation in short order.

Delphine and Vilkas parted ways at the steps of the Frostfruit Inn, Delphine telling Vilkas to send Siri to Riverwood at once upon her return from the Embassy. Vilkas shoved aside a small, nagging thought in his mind as he bid the Breton farewell, but as he sat with his back to the inn's hearth, nursing a mug of mead, he couldn't keep the thought at bay.

_If she returns from the Embassy…_

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><p>The evening sky had long since faded into the deep, velvety blue of night. Stars glittered in the dark tapestry, like tiny pinpricks, lights from another realm of Mundus shining through the perforations in the fabric of the universe. It was into this inky darkness that Siri and Ra'Zha emerged, Etienne and Malborn in tow. Etienne thanked his rescuers profusely, and Ra'Zha pulled him aside to whisper something in his ear before handing him a rucksack of supplies—which had been cleverly cached in a dead tree nearby—and sending him on his way. Malborn, meanwhile, grumbled something about being a fugitive for the rest of his life before bidding Siri a curt farewell and running off up the path.<p>

Siri and Ra'Zha, now alone, struck out on the road, curving gently to the southwest, toward the small yet ancient settlement of Dragon Bridge. Siri would have to journey through the night, nonstop, to make it to Rorikstead and her rendezvous with Vilkas. She was sure he was worried sick about her; she could almost feel his concern, despite being many miles away.

With a sudden jolt of unpleasant realization, Siri abruptly stopped in her tracks. It had just occurred to her that she had not eaten in hours, and she had no food at all, having left all her supplies with Vilkas. She cursed silently at the idea of a long trek on an empty stomach—which, of course, would necessitate a detour for supplies that would further delay her journey.

As though he had sensed her thoughts, Ra'Zha spoke. His words were soft, and she suspected he was wary of the possibility that they might be observed by unfriendly eyes and ears. They had not yet put a comfortable distance between themselves and the Embassy; who knew whether the Thalmor had agents in these woods?

"When we find a safe spot," the tall Khajiit murmured, "I have some food that you can have. I'm sure you are famished."

With these words, Ra'Zha redoubled his pace and the two were moving swiftly through the north-Skyrim wilderness. Eventually they stopped; Ra'Zha studied the landscape for a moment as Siri watched. Finally he gestured for her to stay low, and the two crept between a few dense, squat wild shrubs near a clearing. Siri heard some surly, rough voices coming from nearby and peeked curiously around, out of the foliage serving as their cover.

She had to admire her new traveling companion's strategic thinking. He had placed between them and the Thalmor Embassy an entire Stormcloak rebel camp: she could see the blue banners and distinctive armor of Ulfric's loyal followers. If the Thalmor gave chase, they would come across this band of fierce Nord warriors who would not hesitate to engage; any ensuing battle would provide cover for Ra'Zha and Siri to slip away, down to the nearby Karth River, which would allow them to escape without leaving much evidence of their movements. By the time any Thalmor got through the Stormcloak camp, Siri and Ra'Zha would be long gone.

Crouched down in the dense scrub, Ra'Zha produced from his effects a loaf of bread, a large wedge of goat cheese, and a large chunk of cured beef. Tearing the loaf in half, he used his dagger to divide the beef and cheese. Siri hesitated, giving him a strange look.

"Didn't you just kill someone with that?" she asked warily. Ra'Zha chuckled and unsheathed a second dagger, identical to the first but for the dried blood visible near the hilt.

"Always carry a backup," he replied. Siri, mollified, proceeded to tuck enthusiastically into the food; though it was trail rations, the bread was surprisingly soft and the beef delightfully well-seasoned. Siri found herself wondering what Ra'Zha had done to the beef to keep it so tasty while still being suitable for travel.

As soon as the pair had finished eating, Ra'Zha tucked his two daggers away and gestured for Siri to follow him. The night was still dark and heavy upon them, but, far north as they were, Siri could already see a faint hint of dawn on the distant horizon.

Rather than travel through Dragon Bridge itself, where Thalmor agents might find witnesses to tell them where the fugitives (as Siri realized she now essentially was) had gone, Siri and Ra'Zha descended carefully to the Karth, where a narrow rise in the river afforded them safe passage across. Though they would both have preferred to keep to the river, the cold temperatures of the north made that unrealistic, so they climbed out onto the far bank and made for the road.

Siri looked back at the spot where they had left the river. Fortunately they had found an outcropping of craggy rocks, just short enough that they could haul themselves up onto it, leaving the soft, easily-disturbed soil on the banks untouched. They dried themselves off quickly, then proceeded south on the road along the River Hjaal. They were only about halfway to Rorikstead, so Siri and Ra'Zha picked up their pace a little bit and continued onward.

Except for a couple packs of bandits—easily dealt with, especially as Ra'Zha could spot them even from a distance thanks to his inborn night-eye—the road was desolate and empty, and the two made good time on the long trudge south. The air warmed slightly as they drew nearer to Rorikstead, and once they finally entered Whiterun Hold, they no longer felt the biting chill of the far north.

At last they crested the final hill and saw Rorikstead sprawled before them. Ra'Zha took his leave, heading back to Riften; Siri, meanwhile, stepped into the inn, seeking her beloved Vilkas.

The door of the inn opened and shut, and Vilkas turned his head instinctively toward the sound. Upon seeing her, he stood abruptly, shifting the table at which he had been sitting ("Oy! Do you mind?" exclaimed the sullen traveler next to whom Vilkas had been seated) and crossing the inn to greet his wife.

"Siri, my love, how are you? Did you get the information you were looking for?" he asked, hoping her answer would be in the affirmative—he didn't want her to have to do any more reconnaissance among the Thalmor if it could be avoided. To his relief, she nodded. "Let's get you some food, love," he responded, walking to Mralki at the bar and ordering a bowl of venison stew. As Siri ate, Vilkas went back to the bar to purchase provisions for their long trip to Riverwood. Then, rucksacks packed, the two departed swiftly. Siri had only been in Rorikstead for an hour, but she and Vilkas had agreed that it would be better for her to keep moving; it was possible that the Thalmor had already sent someone after her. They decided to cut across the great plain of Whiterun rather than risk sticking to the road: the route was much straighter, and therefore shorter, and Thalmor Justiciars frequently traveled the roads of western Skyrim with their soldier lackeys tagging along. By all reasonable estimations, the wild cats and canines of Skyrim would be much more manageable foes—especially as Siri had now not slept in well over a day and a half.

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><p>The woods resounded with the chaos of the Thalmor soldiers' search outside Reeking Cave. The frost troll Elenwen had had installed to guard the cramped fissure was dead, along with Rulindil, her Third Emissary and chief interrogator. The ambassador was livid, and the Thalmor footsoldiers, desperate to placate their dangerous superior, were tearing apart every potential hiding place, searching for signs of the woman who had escaped Elenwen's grasp. Dogs were brought in from Solitude to try to pick up the fugitives' scents, but to no avail; the number of Thalmor agents who had muddled around the site had confused the scent trails too much.<p>

Elenwen stood in her solar, the calm, silent environment a sharp contrast to the chaos of the search taking place outside. Eyes shut, hands clasped behind her back, she attempted to call up her memory of the strange guest Elenwen had not known. Who could she have been? Her face had been so familiar, and yet…

"Madame Ambassador," came a voice, clipped and formal, from the doorway. Elenwen turned to the intruder, mental picture of the unknown woman vanishing as her attention was interrupted.

"What is it, Athellor?" she asked impatiently. The soldier stepped into the room and bowed respectfully.

"Madame Ambassador," he said again, "I bring news. The dossier on the Blades agent, Esbern, has been taken, along with the ones on the other Blades agent and Ulfric Stormcloak."

Unexpectedly, a smirk twisted its way across Elenwen's dour countenance. "How…intriguing. Thank you, Athellor. You may go." The soldier gave another small bow and turned away to leave. As he reached the doorway, however, Elenwen called to him.

"Athellor," she said. He turned back.

"Yes, milady?"

"Send me Shavari."


	53. Into the Ratway

**A/N:** Hooray! Look, another chapter, and so soon after the last one! I told y'all I had more stuff in the works ;)

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><p>Baurion stood outside, ankle-deep in the snow, his torch sputtering in the wind.<p>

_What a miserable night_, he thought to himself as he peered into the darkness before him.

Behind the small Breton man, a broad path wound upward, ending suddenly at a small, secluded lodge that backed into a sheer, rocky cliff. This was the Hall of the Vigilant, and Baurion a Vigilant of Stendarr. He took pride in his work—rooting out and destroying, or banishing back to Oblivion, the vile abominations of the Daedra—as did all his brothers and sisters in Stendarr's mercy.

The Hall, in the far-northern hold of the Pale, was tucked cozily onto the side of a lone mountain that stood well apart from both of the mountain ranges that ran nearby. Snow was virtually ever-present here, but that suited the Vigilants just fine: the snowy conditions made it more difficult for people to travel in the area, affording them some privacy from the prying eyes of the outside world.

Baurion shivered. How did his Nord compatriots deal with this frigid weather? He willed his torch to stay lit, though the winds were rapidly picking up; if it went out, he would have no light or heat (meagre though the torch's output was) and would have to make the long trudge back up the path to re-light it at the Hall.

Suddenly—_What was that?_ The snow naturally muffled sounds, but Baurion squinted into the darkness, certain he'd heard something…

A sharp gust, and Bauron's torch was at last extinguished. More frustrated than frightened, he squinted at the darkness for a moment more before turning to head back up the mountainside.

But there it was again—that sound. Or was it? Baurion turned back, and to his surprise—though it was hard to make it out in the darkness—he saw what looked like a dog limping up toward him. From what he could see, it appeared that the poor thing had been injured in a fire: it had no hair and was black as the night, its skeleton visible beneath its dark hide. Feeling a rush of sympathy for the poor creature—surely injured by some foul fire Daedra—he approached it, kneeling down.

But something was wrong. As he stretched out his hand to pet the wretched beast, its eyes opened wide—horrible, eerie, and glowing red—and its teeth…_its teeth…!_

Powerful jaws closed without warning on Baurion's neck, and he could feel its fangs—long and razor-sharp—sinking into his own soft flesh. He felt a warm liquid cascading down his woolen mage robes and tried to call out, but he couldn't make a sound. The only small comfort he had was that he could no longer feel the bite; the first seconds had been agony, but numbness had replaced the pain, as though an icy cold were leeching into him from the from the dog's bite…but surely that couldn't be; that was absurd.

Baurion felt weak now, lying on the ground, the dog's jaws clamped down like a vise. Unexpectedly, more figures swam hazily into view out of the dark void before him. He saw them laughing at him, these men and women in strange armor the likes of which he had never seen…

The closest figure, a gaunt, grey-skinned man, was smiling malevolently at Baurion, his eyes glowing orange—_no, surely not_—despite the total lack of light. He inspected Baurion, who was now barely conscious, a long silence hanging on the air. At long last he spoke, and his voice, deep and gravelly, struck fear into Baurion's heart.

"CuSith…_finish him_."

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><p>Siri had managed to steal a few hours' rest before venturing forth once more, this time bound for Riften's Ratway in search of a man named Esbern. As she walked the scenic road toward the city, Siri recalled that Ra'Zha had been bound for Riften as well—perhaps she could find him and ask for his assistance in locating Esbern.<p>

The trip from Riverwood to Riften was a long one, but Siri moved briskly: who knew when the Thalmor would move in for the kill? Perhaps she was already too late; it was entirely possible that Esbern was already long gone, either captured by the Thalmor or in flight to safer environs. Esbern, however, was not her only concern; she now had to watch her own back, too, lest any Thalmor agents get the drop on her.

The day wore on and Siri continued her trek, pausing occasionally to collect a specimen for her alchemy and, around midday, to pull some rations from her bag for a quick lunch—still on the move, of course. As she passed a small cave, marked "Haemar's Shame" on her map, she had a fortuitous break: tied to a tree nearby was a horse, its rider—an imperial scout, by the look of him—lying dead on the ground. Looking around cautiously, Siri shrugged and approached the horse, holding out a friendly hand. The horse, a beautiful palomino, looked rather skinny and careworn, and it shied away from her touch. Siri wondered whether it had been somewhat traumatized by its previous rider's untimely, and somewhat gruesome, end: the horse had pulled its tie-rope taut, staying as far from its dead rider as possible.

Siri looked down at the fallen soldier with a sigh. Someone had probably mistaken him for a courier; his satchel was torn apart, papers and old food tossed helter-skelter, as though someone had been searching for something. In an attempt to calm the horse, and out of a sense of duty to the fallen, Siri bent down and grabbed the man under his arms, hoisting him up and hauling him bodily across the road to lie in a patch of snowberries, where she laid him out, hands resting on his abdomen, eyes shut. With a murmured "Talos guide you," Siri turned back to the horse, which had calmed considerably—though it was still rather nervous. Moving slowly toward it, Siri pulled an apple from her rucksack and, recalling the word wall from Ysgramor's Tomb, uttered a single word.

_Raan!_

At once the horse calmed completely and Siri could get close enough to offer it the apple. The horse devoured the fruit quickly and stood still, allowing Siri to climb up. Now on horseback, the journey to Riften would not be nearly as time-consuming, and Siri and the palomino set off at a good pace.

Traveling south out of the mountains now, the snow on the ground thinned again and snowberries were replaced by wild mountain flowers of various colors. Siri pressed onward, sometimes at a brisk trot, other times at a full gallop, stopping at signposts now and again to confirm that she was still on the right course.

South and east she traveled, passing by the northern fork to Ivarstead; she needed to make haste if she was to beat the Thalmor to Esbern's hiding place, and stopping in the small town would only delay her journey further while accomplishing nothing substantive whatsoever. Occasionally a landmark would rise out of the otherwise serene wilderness: on her left, the fort of Treva's Watch; on her right, the ancient ruins of Angarvunde; eventually she found the small cut-across she was seeking—a narrow, winding trail of hard-packed dirt, and coaxed the palomino onto it, slowing her pace to compensate for the uneven terrain.

On she went, past Heartwood Mill to the small stone bridge nearby. She passed Faldar's Tooth at a full run, the snarling of the pit wolves echoing behind her. Speeding along the shore of Lake Honrich, she passed Merryfair Farm and followed the trail up the hill. Finally, after several hours of hard riding, she reached the Riften stable, where she dismounted in a quick, fluid motion. Hofgrir hurried over to greet her.

"Looking to stable your horse, miss?" he asked. As he approached the horse, he was taken aback. "By the Divines," he exclaimed, "what's happened to her?"

"She was like this when I came across her in the wilds," Siri answered. "Her rider was dead. I've no need for a horse right now," she added, "so I'll sell her to you if you're interested."

Hofgrir shrugged and examined the palomino, much to Siri's chagrin—she didn't have time to lose haggling over a horse right now.

"Well, she's got a good constitution, and she's built solidly, although she looks half-starved," he said. "Sure, I'll buy her. I'll pay you 500 Septims." Siri agreed and accepted the gold from Hofgrir, tucking it into her rucksack and striding purposefully toward the gates and into Riften. In her hurry, she forgot to inquire after Ra'Zha in the keep, instead making a beeline for the Ratway.

In her haste, Siri also overlooked the Khajiit woman who was standing by Haelga's Bunkhouse. As Siri descended to the lower level of the canal, the Khajiit looked up; then, with the practiced air of an experienced professional, she followed her quarry into the bowels of the city.


	54. The Ragged Flagon

**A/N:** It's so good to be back! I really missed writing this. Not a day went by that I didn't attempt to summon some modicum of inspiration. But now I seem to finally have it back! At least for a bit. I'll definitely be trying to update at least once a week, if not more often; my personal goal is to be able to publish something every Wednesday, if I can.

I hope y'all are still enjoying the ride; I'm definitely still enjoying writing it :)

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><p>The tenacious stench of neglect and decay clung to the musty air in the Ratway, hitting Siri like a wall as soon as she opened the small door on the lower level of the canal. Shutting the door as silently as possible behind her, she crouched down and inched forward, moving stealthily from shadow to shadow, careful to stay out of the pools of orange light that danced on the floor beneath the torches.<p>

It had been Siri's avowed hope that she could pass unseen through the tunnels, to sneak through without encountering (and potentially killing) anyone, but as she crept down the narrow passage, her heart sank: she could hear voices ahead already. Ducking into a small alcove and praying that no one would walk below her and look up—the floor was actually a grate, with a lit brazier in the room below—she sat, listening to the conversation of the men ahead. Drahff and Hewnon were, by the sound of it, arguing over provisions. Steeling herself, Siri moved forward again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the men whose voices were reverberating through the stone tunnels.

The room they were in was wrapped partway around a large, circular pillar of stone; the men's campfire, set on one end of the hall—calling it a room seemed too generous, Siri decided—was putting out a lot of heat, and the closer she moved, the warmer it became. The air grew stuffy and hazy, and Siri impatient: these men were impeding her progress, keeping her from Esbern. After a few minutes she stood, deciding to simply walk by them.

Bad decision.

"You picked a bad time to get lost, friend…" snarled Drahff, Hewnon drawing a steel mace and advancing upon her. Siri rolled her eyes—why did ruffians always express that particular sentiment?—and drew her axe.

Moments later, the two men lay dead on the floor and Siri moved on, sights still fixed on her goal: finding Esbern, and doing so before any Thalmor agents. She crossed a small, wooden bridge and found herself in a room with a table in the center; a dead Nord lowlife lay prone on the floor in a puddle of dried blood, and on the table she saw a book—"Beggar"—which she picked up, stowing it in her rucksack for later reading. At that instant, she heard a raucous roar from somewhere nearby, and her attention was drawn to a door down a surprisingly well-lit half-flight of stairs. Perhaps, she thought, there would be people down there who could help her.

She descended the staircase and pushed open the door and found herself confronted with something wholly different than she had expected. Though she was under the city of Riften, the room in which she now found herself was almost airy, its walls curving upward gracefully to a central shaft, down which sunlight streamed. In addition to the natural light, braziers on the walls of the stone walkway blazed brightly, the light reflecting off the large pool of water that occupied most of the center of the room. As she stepped inside further, she could see that the alcoves around the edge of the room were filled with shops—an alchemist, a smithy, and a couple other dry-goods dealers who traded more generally in just about anything else one could imagine. Upon the water stood a wooden platform; on the walkway to the right, in front of a small wooden bridge, hung a sign that read "The Ragged Flagon". She approached the sign, crossing the creaky little bridge, and found herself in the middle of a bustling pub. Siri pushed her way over to the bar and was just about to address the sneering barman when a heavy hand descended abruptly upon her shoulder. She turned about, hand on her dagger, only to find herself face-to-face with—

"_Beirir_?" Siri was incredulous. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I was just about to ask you the same question," her brother replied. "I happen to be here on business, you know, visiting a close friend of mine—"

"Ra'Zha!" Siri exclaimed before her brother had even beckoned the towering Khajiit over. Beirir smiled.

"Yes, Zha told me about your little escapade at the Thalmor Embassy," said Beirir lightly. The dark-furred Khajiit gave a small bow.

"What brings you down to the Ragged Flagon?" he asked in his deep, rumbling voice. "I must say, the Flagon is not as accustomed to accommodating the likes of the Companions."

Siri looked at Ra'Zha, puzzled. "Is this…are you…?" she stumbled, unable to decide which question she wanted to ask first.

"Zha is the Guildmaster of the Thieves' Guild," interjected Beirir cheerfully. "He and I have been friends since my earliest trips to Riften. Back when you were just a petty pickpocket and I was a mischievous delivery boy, eh, buddy?" he laughed, pulling Ra'Zha into a headlock. The Khajiit gave a subdued chuckle, breaking easily out of Beirir's grasp and holding a hand out to Siri.

"Our proper introduction," he said. "I did not want to say more last time we met, but you are in my home now. It is only right of me to welcome you as I should, as you are now my guest." Siri shook his hand, overwhelmed.

"So you have known each other…"

"Since I was still Lod's delivery boy," Beirir supplied. "Zha tried to lift the gold I was carrying, but I caught him _in flagrante delicto_. We got into a bit of a tussle, and by the end of it we were the best of friends." He laughed, turning to Ra'Zha. "That summer you brought me to the Shadow Stone and I began to work on my Illusion magic in earnest, remember?"

The Khajiit smiled, more reserved than his friend, but clearly enjoying the memories. "It was quite impressive how quickly you mastered the ability to turn yourself invisible," he remarked. "It became much harder for me to keep track of you." Beirir just grinned.

Siri shook her head, not knowing what else to say. Ra'Zha turned to her.

"So, Siri," he said, "how may I be of service to you today? Something tells me yours is not a social visit."

Siri nodded. "You're correct, of course," she began, "but I wonder whether we might find a more…private environment in which to discuss my question?" She cast a wary eye about the pub. "There's no telling who else might overhear."

* * *

><p>From across the Flagon, a pair of eyes watched as Siri moved away from the bar with her two companions and disappeared. The Khajiit woman who had tailed Siri into the bar sat, waiting. Siri would come back. And when she returned, she would not escape.<p> 


	55. The Warrens

As soon as the heavy wooden door to the Ratway Vaults shut behind her, Siri could tell something was wrong.

The door swung shut on its creaky hinges with a dull thud, followed by the sound of the metal door latch falling back into place. The sounds, eerie as they were, sent a shiver up her spine, and she hoped that the sound wasn't a portent of bad things to come. Almost immediately, however, she knew her hope had been in vain.

An unsettling silence hung on the air, and she cast a glance at Beirir, whose eyes told her he was having the same thought she was.

_Tread lightly. Danger is afoot._

Brother and sister skirted the two-story drop in the center of the dimly-lit room, following the stone path around to a narrow tunnel across the way.

Unexpectedly the silence was shattered as Siri and Beirir reached the hallway. The harsh voice of a Thalmor wizard, echoing off the cold stones, tore through the dank dungeon, startling Siri badly and causing her to step back toward the precipice behind her.

"There she is! The Dragonborn! Seize her!"

Two Thalmor soldiers appeared out of the gloom and lunged at her; only through sheer luck did she manage to throw herself out of the way.

Reappearing out of nowhere (Siri supposed he had turned himself invisible at the Altmer's initial shout), Beirir gave a light push to one of the soldiers, who was precariously balanced at ledge-side after losing Siri. The unforunate Altmer gave a short, sharp utterance of unpleasant surprise as he fell; his cry, however, was cut short as he hit the stones far below with a sickening crunch of bone and armor that reverberated off the vaulted ceiling.

The second soldier had not rushed forward as recklessly as his compatriot and had already turned, throwing himself at the small Nord woman who was sprawled on her back on the flagstones.

Siri saw the elf coming and turned herself slightly, pulling her dagger from its sheathe on her hip and kicking the Altmer's feet out from under him. He fell forward, a look of shock on his face, and landed heavily upon Siri—and her dagger. Quickly Siri shoved him off her; the tall Thalmor lay clutching the knife in his gut and screaming in pain, desperately trying to right himself. Pulling out her axe, Siri finished the elf—mercifully—with a single blow, then retrieved her befouled dagger from his still-bleeding corpse.

Beirir, meanwhile, had decided to play with his new quarry, the Thalmor wizard. Dodging the elf's firebolt attacks, the Nord vanished once more. The wizard laughed.

"You think your little invisibility stunt will save you from me?" he jeered. "I am a top-ranking Thalmor official, an Altmer. We are superior mages; you poor Nords can only pray to your false god to have a hope of harnessing the magicks of Mundus as we can—a simple detect life spell—"

A moment later he fell heavily to the floor, throat slashed, blood running freely, as the lanky Nord reappeared behind him, dagger crimsoned in victory.

"Oh yes," Beirir said. "Quite superior."

As they pressed on through the Vaults, Siri was horrified by the gory trail the Thalmor had left: here and there lay the bodies of various lowlifes and vagrants, left to die in pools of their own blood; the stench of charred flesh, courtesy of the wizard's destruction magic, blended with the metallic bite of blood and the other rank smells of death to hang nauseatingly upon the already heavy, stagnant air. It looked to Siri as though the entire population of the Ratway had been destroyed; even Beirir, who traded in death, had to avert his gaze from the innocents who had been murdered by the Thalmor without a second thought.

Onward they went, deeper into the maze of identical stone corridors, past the corpses of Riften's ill and insane, the desperate and destitute. Silence hung between the siblings like a veil: neither dared speak; it seemed somehow disrespectful to the fallen. Every time she passed another body, Siri would recite in her mind a short prayer to the Nine that the deceased might find peace in Aetherius.

Finally—not soon enough, she thought—Siri and her brother reached a section of the Warrens that, it seemed, the Thalmor agents had not yet reached. She found the audible ramblings of the few somewhat deranged inhabitants of this area oddly comforting after the ominous silence that had covered the rest of the Ratway like a funereal shroud.

Up a flight of stairs she went; doing an about-face at the top landing, she saw what was surely her destination: a heavily-reinforced door with a sliding panel in the front, just like the one Ra'Zha had described to her in the Flagon. She approached it quickly, praying to Talos that she was not too late.

"Esbern?" she called, knocking sharply on the door.

The panel slid to one side and a pair of eyes appeared in the opening.

"There's no one here by that name," came a gruff voice.

Siri rejoiced inwardly. He was okay! She had beaten the Thalmor to him after all!

"Esbern, please," she said. "I'm a friend. I'm here to help you." A derisive snort was the answer she received, the eyes glaring at her through the small opening not softening at all.

"I don't know who you're referring to, but it isn't me. I'm not Esbern. Now leave me alone!" The small panel shut forcefully, echoing the ire that had risen in the old man's voice.

"Esbern, wait!" Siri called. "Delphine sent me! She told me to ask you where you were on the 30th of Frostfall!"

Silence on the other side of the door. It lasted so long Siri almost wondered whether Esbern had suddenly dropped dead. At length he reopened the sliding panel.

"How…?"

"Delphine is alive, Esbern, and she sent me to fetch you. My name is Siri, sir, and…" here she hesitated briefly, "I'm Dragonborn."

Abruptly the sliding panel slid shut again, but this time Siri could hear Esbern's voice as he…_what was he doing?_

A few moments later, Siri realized: locks!

"Just a second…this one always sticks…"

It was almost comical how many locks the man had on the door; in fact, out of the corner of her eye, Siri thought she saw Beirir stifling silent giggles. She couldn't begrudge the man his security, though, given who was hunting for him. After what seemed an eternity, the heavy door jolted open and swung inward.

"Come in," said the elderly Nord, gesturing for Siri and her brother to move quickly. He shut the door behind them, throwing a couple locks back into place before rounding on Siri. "So," he said, a hint of awe in his voice, "you're…can it really be true? Dragonborn?"

"Yes," replied Siri, "at least, according to Delphine…" _And the guards in Whiterun…and the Greybeards…and any time a dragon dies anywhere near me…_

Esbern seemed ecstatic. "Then," he cried, "there…there is hope! The gods have not abandoned us! We must…" here his speech tapered off, and the man—surprisingly sprightly for a 70-something-year old living in a sewer—began hurrying about the small (yet surprisingly cozily furnished) room, grabbing books and stacks of papers, throwing food and supplies into a travel sack. "We must go, quickly. Now. You must take me to Delphine. We have much to discuss."

While the old Nord was packing, Siri walked around the room, picking up anything else that she thought Esbern might want to take. There were so many books—Siri grabbed copies of _The Dragon Break_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Blades_, as well as a couple others that sounded like they might contain useful information: _The Dragon War_, _Children of the Sky_, and _Fire and Darkness_. She also picked up the spare Septims littering the ground by Esbern's bookshelf and a silver jeweled necklace buried under a heap of scrap parchment.

Once Esbern had packed the last of his books and notes, he, Siri, and Beirir set out from his tiny room.

"_There! There he is! Get them!_"

Another Thalmor wizard and two more soldiers had apparently found their way to this deepest section of the Warrens. Siri drew her axe, and Beirir his dagger; as her brother vanished into thin air, Siri turned back to Esbern, only to find that the man had conjured up a towering frost atronach. She hastily stepped out of its way, feeling the cold emanating from its icy body as it made a beeline for the wizard.

The larger of the two soldiers, meanwhile, charged at Siri, his elven war-axe glinting in the light of the wizard's firebolts. He had clearly decided that despite her strange-looking armor—almost dragonlike in its appearance—this small Nord woman should be an easy opponent for him to best.

Siri, seeing the hulking Altmer, crouched down as though preparing to fight; when he drew near enough, however, she ducked down further and launched herself forward at his shins. Taken by surprise, the Altmer tripped unceremoniously over the Dragonborn, tumbling head-over-heels to a clattering halt on the grimy stones, completely disoriented.

Siri was still dimly aware of her surroundings: Beirir had slit the other Thalmor soldier's throat, stealthily sneaking up on her and catching her unaware, while the Thalmor wizard had succumbed to Esbern's destruction magic and a nasty gore-wound from the frost Atronach's wickedly pointed arms. Her focus, however, rested upon her quarry—her prey—who was struggling to his feet.

A resounding clash of metal echoed off the vaulted ceiling: Siri struck her adversary hard on his armored side, her Daedric war-axe doing nasty damage to the elf's cuirass and, she judged by his pained cry and sudden doubling-over, possibly fracturing some of his ribs. Taking advantage of the moment, Siri kicked him over ferociously, laying him out once more on the stones of the sewer floor.

This time the Altmer made no move to rise. Instead he lay there, casting about for his axe while still clutching his injured side. Siri stood, watching, suddenly unwilling to land the killing blow on an individual who could not defend himself properly. She relaxed out of her battle-stance, contemplating the elf, who was clearly no longer a threat. What to do?

The elf, for his part, seemed taken aback by the small Nord's restraint. Grunting, he hauled himself up onto one elbow.

"Aren't…you going to…kill me?" he asked haltingly, wincing with the exertion and the pain of drawing breath. Siri looked down at him.

"Well, you can't fight back," she said, "and I am not a murderer…unlike you."

She expected some sort of derisive comment, mocking her as weak or soft, but it never came. Instead, the elf pulled off his ornate golden helmet, revealing his long, black hair and the lines of his high cheekbones, and sank back to the ground.

Siri was surprised. Never before had she come across a Thalmor agent who hadn't mocked her until the moment she killed them.

"What are you going to do with him?" Beirir asked, his voice startling Siri out of the fog of her thoughts.

"I'm not sure," she replied. "But…I really don't think he's going to go running back to the Thalmor. They would probably just kill him for failing to bring us in. And even if he does go back to them, so what? What's he going to say? He doesn't know where we're bound or what we're doing."

Siri looked back down at the elf. He was beginning to pale, and his eyes were shut. His breathing seemed increasingly labored. With a sigh, she knelt down at his side.

"What's your name?" she asked.

The Altmer turned his head slightly, opening his eyes, brow furrowed in a quizzical expression. "Aranath," he managed at last.

"Aranath," said Siri, "take this." She had produced from her bag a healing potion—one of the strongest money could buy—and handed it to him.

The elf looked at her, brow furrowed.

"Why…why are you…?"

"Look," she replied bluntly, "I don't know what your Thalmor superiors have told you about us Nords, but we're not a bunch of ignorant savages, and I for one will not just sit idly by and watch someone succumb to wounds if I can help them. I am not," she added, "a cold-blooded murderer."

Images flashed before her eyes—the Imperial captain, breathing her last in Helgen keep, blood pouring from the wound Siri had given her.

_Not usually…_

Gazing pensively at the Nord woman, Aranath accepted the large bottle, gulping down the burning, bitter potion. Almost instantly he felt bone knit, flesh heal; the tenderness in his side vanished. All that remained of his wound was the massive dent left in his armor by Siri's axe. Sitting up, he pulled off the destroyed chest piece. He reached for his axe; Beirir jerked forward, and for a moment Siri was concerned, but then the Altmer surprised her by holding it out to her, his head bowed.

"Thank you," he said. "I owe you my life…and an apology."

Siri stood dumbfounded, receiving the axe without even realizing that she had. Aranath pushed himself up off the ground and stood before her.

"You have shown me today that not all Nords are what the Dominion would have us believe," he said. "So allow me to do the same for you. I am in your debt, and offer myself into your service, if you will accept."

Siri glanced uncertainly at Beirir, who simply shrugged. Turning back to the elf, Siri hesitated, looking down at the war-axe in her hands for a few moments before placing it back in Aranath's hands.

"Thank you," she said, "but you needn't."

A flicker of amusement crossed the elf's face as he accepted his axe back from her. "Very well," he said. "But should you ever require anything, I am at your service."

A long pause ensued. It was Beirir who finally broke the silence.

"What will you do now?" he asked. Aranath turned, fixing his amber eyes on Siri's brother.

"I can't say I really know," the Altmer admitted. "I suppose I shall have to find somewhere to lie low for a while and plan my next moves." Beirir grinned.

"I know just the place!"


	56. Cornered

"Were you followed?"

Siri, Beirir, Esbern, and Aranath had just stepped back into the Ragged Flagon when Ra'Zha swept up to them, his eyes fixed intently on Siri.

"Followed? Followed where?" she responded, looking instinctively about for anything unusual. The Khajiit's inquiry startled her.

"Into the Ratway. Were you followed?" Ra'Zha pressed. He seemed calm on the surface, but Siri could tell by his gaze that he had noticed something that had made him wary. She struggled to remember.

"No, I—I don't think I was," she said hesitantly. "Why—what's wrong? Why do you ask?"

The Khajiit looked back toward the crowded pub before he spoke again. "I've been watching the Flagon," he said, "keeping an eye out for any suspicious types. Shortly after you arrived, a Khajiit I had never seen before showed up and sat in one of the shadowy corners—I don't think she saw you leave, but she'd had her eyes on the area around the door to the Vaults the whole time you were gone. She left a few minutes ago." He paused before continuing. "She can't be with a trade caravan, or they wouldn't let her into the city. In fact, that's probably why she caught my attention: it's not often you see Khajiit down here. Though if she's here at the behest of the Dominion, I must say that the choice of a Khajiit agent was rather clever; she certainly stood out less down here than, say, an Altmer would. Speaking of which…" Ra'Zha turned his attention to the unfamiliar Altmer standing behind Beirir, who took the opportunity to address his friend.

"Zha," Beirir said, "you wouldn't happen to have a spare bed, would you? My new friend here is defecting from the Thalmor and needs a place to lie low for a few days while he decides what to do with himself."

Ra'Zha looked at the Altmer for a moment before holding out a hand. "I certainly do," he said. "Welcome to the Ragged Flagon, my friend. I am Ra'Zha."

"And I am Aranath," the Altmer replied. "My thanks to you. I promise shall not burden you for too long."

"That reminds me," Siri said, "don't forget to get yourself some more-nondescript armor." She gestured to the sack of armor and weapons that he was carrying.

"Indeed," added Ra'Zha, a hint of pride in his voice now. "You can sell all of your acquired goods right here in the Flagon if you need some coin. Don't even have to risk going up to the city." He pointed across the water to one of the alcoves, into which was tucked a glowing forge. "Arnskar will set you up properly."

"Maybe you can sell all that and buy yourself a set of leather armor," Siri suggested. "You'd stand out much less in that than in that old Elven stuff you were wearing before. It's far too visible for someone who's looking to keep a low profile."

Taking the proffered advice, Aranath took his spoils over to Arnskar Ember-Master. Ra'Zha, meanwhile, turned his attention back to Siri.

"If you would like to avoid the Khajiit woman, I can sneak you out of here another way," he said.

Siri shook her head. "Thank you for your offer, Ra'Zha," she said, "but if I don't deal with her now I will have to deal with her later, perhaps when I am not expecting her. Better to confront her now, I think, and get it over with so I can travel in…well, maybe not peace. So that I can travel without being followed…"

The Khajiit bowed his head in agreement. "A wise choice. I expected nothing less from you," he said. "But be careful; who is to say how many Thalmor agents may have joined her out there in the Ratway?"

Here Beirir spoke once more. He had been leaning casually against Vekel's bar eating an apple, but it seemed now he had more to say.

"Sister," he said, "may I accompany you as backup? I have an idea that may keep the element of surprise on our side…"

* * *

><p>Shavari's patience was wearing thin.<p>

Not long ago, a Thalmor Justiciar and a couple of Thalmor footsoldiers had shown up in the Ratway and insisted on remaining to capture the elderly Nord man, Esbern, and the woman who had been seeking him. Shavari was not accustomed to company while she worked. Elenwen usually called upon her to deal discreetly with affairs she wanted kept silent. Had the Ambassador changed her mind? Was the woman not to be eliminated?

Abruptly the door to the Flagon opened and the young Nord woman appeared in the small stairwell. She moved forward slightly, peering around, but seeming to miss the shadows on the floor—_sloppy_, thought Shavari—she gestured into the large, empty space behind her. A moment later, out stepped an older Nord man, and the two moved cautiously toward the top of the staircase.

Shavari cursed inwardly. Had it not been for the Justiciar's plan, she could already have eliminated both of the Nords and been on her way back to Elenwen to deliver the good news—and claim her hefty reward.

"By order of First Emissary Elenwen, stop right there!"

The Justiciar's authoritative, arrogant voice reverberated around the small stone chamber, and the two Nords froze, attention drawn at once to the Aldmeri agents who had been lurking in a blind spot in the room. A long silence ensued before the woman finally spoke.

"What do you want with us?" she asked. Shavari was impressed; the woman's voice betrayed no fear. She would soon remedy that.

"You are to come with us back to the Thalmor Embassy in Haafingar to answer a few questions," came the response.

"And what makes you think we would go with you?" Siri asked sweetly. "Why should we comply? You'll only wind up killing us once we're there anyway."

Shavari could hold herself back no longer. It was clear that the Altmer's plan was not going to work; hers, however, still would. With a snarl she began to advance on the Nord woman.

"Then you will pay now for meddling in the Thalmor's affairs!"

All at once the scene dissolved into chaos as Beirir appeared between Shavari and the Justiciar. With a violent motion he drove his dagger into the Khajiit woman's neck, severing her spinal cord and killing her instantly. Before she had even hit the ground, he turned, jamming his blade into the Justiciar's throat with a single, fluid, sweeping motion.

As Beirir had emerged from his invisibility, Siri and Esbern had begun to move—she in one direction, he in the other. A loud crashing sound signalled the arrival from Oblivion of Esbern's Daedric summon, the massive frost atronach; Esbern and his atronach took on the shorter Thalmor soldier, dispatching him in short order, while Siri took out the tall female Thalmor with relative ease, given the elf's shock at the fate of her superior.

As quickly as it began, the fight was over. Blood seeped across the floor along the ancient grout lines between the stones; Shavari's eyes stared sightlessly at the wall across from her corpse, and the Justiciar lay facedown on the floor, the hood of his robe still pulled up over his head.

"Good plan," Siri said to her brother, giving his shoulder an affectionate punch as she walked by. "Now come on, let's get out of here. We need to get Esbern to Riverwood as quickly as we can."


	57. Siblings

Ever since the distant days of her childhood Siri could remember her brother being, at times, one of the most irritating people on all of Nirn. Since being reunited with him, Siri—probably because she'd thought him dead—had joked with Beirir about the things he'd done to annoy his little sister, how cute the things she'd once thought obnoxious actually were: the way he'd teased, the way he'd eaten her desserts, the way he'd kick her under the table at meal times and claim it was an accident—all of these things she had remembered with the sort of rose-tinted, affectionate nostalgia that time and loss lend.

But no, it was still annoying.

Beirir was following his sister to Riverwood, and he was doing one of the things she had always hated the most: walking behind her and smirking as though he knew something she didn't or had some excellent new idea for how to torment her. At last, fed up, she spun around and confronted him.

"_What?!_"

He grinned in the most infuriatingly cheeky way Siri had ever seen, just as he had when they were kids.

"I have no idea why you're so agitated," he said. "I'm simply walking along behind you here, minding my own business. Rather enjoying the weather, you know…"

"Don't give me that," pressed Siri. "You've been having a laugh ever since we left the Ratway." Beirir shrugged.

"Maybe you just think that's—"

"BEIRIR, I AM NOT IMAGINING ANYTHING. BY TALOS, I WILL SHOUT YOU OFF A MOUNTAINTOP IF YOU DON'T TELL ME!"

To her surprise, Beirir threw his head back and laughed—so loudly that he startled a fox out of the nearby brush. Esbern, too, chuckled to himself as he watched the siblings bicker.

When at last his mirth subsided, Beirir looked at his sister, still grinning. "Well I actually just had a question for you," he said. "But the way you reacted—oh, it just reminded me of our trips to Helgen, remember? When we were young, and Da would load us up in the hay-cart…"

Siri laughed in spite of herself, trying (and failing) to still look cross with her brother. "I remember. You used to pretend you were going to push me out of the cart, or try to bury me in hay so the cows would eat me." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Jerk."

Beirir put a hand to his heart, feigning offense at her words. "Sister, I would never have even dreamed of pushing you out of that cart!" he said with mock indignance.

"Liar," Siri said with an ill-concealed smirk. "What were you going to ask me, anyway?"

Beirir shrugged. "I was just curious, because—well, I've never seen you shout before, even when it could have gotten you out of trouble." Siri's mind flashed back to her unfortunate encounter with Iver on the road to Kynesgrove and she shuddered. "Why," her brother continued, "don't you just…shout? I mean, the Divines blessed you with the power. Why not use it?"

Siri gazed contemplatively at her brother for a moment before focusing her attention back on the road ahead of them.

"Look, Beirir," she said after a long pause, "I don't expect you to understand, but—I don't want to use it. I don't want to have to rely on that; I want people to see me as strong in my own right, not look back and think, 'Oh, she won by shouting.' It's not fair, do you see? I mean, look at what people say about Ulfric—using the Voice to murder the High King of Skyrim." She glanced over at her brother, who was looking at her curiously. "I mean," she continued, "I've used it when I've had no other options, but I'm a Nord—I want to win because of my own strength and abilities, my own prowess, without using that advantage that I have over everyone else—even if it was bestowed upon me by the Divines."

Silence fell between them, but Beirir could see that his sister was still thinking. The pair trudged on, Esbern still in tow; finally, Siri spoke once more, her voice resolute.

"I want to be remembered as Siri," she said. "Not just as the Dragonborn."


	58. Reunion in Riverwood

The journey from Riften to Riverwood had been a long one, but Esbern didn't mind. In fact, despite feeling a bit like a hunted animal, he had quite enjoyed the trip. The Dragonborn and her brother were most agreeable company, too, which had made the trip feel even more pleasant.

Their path skirted Lake Honrich and followed the Treva River until nightfall, when they stopped on the shore of Lake Geir, just outside Ivarstead, to make camp. The night was short, though, and the trio rose before dawn to continue on their way, following the paved road that circled south of the Throat of the World toward Helgen. Much to Siri's vexation, the winding road was made treacherous by freshly fallen snow – now their trail would be clearly visible to anyone who might be following them. Nevertheless the group pressed on, passing Helgen at a quick clip. Fortunately the snow had not reached north of the burnt-out ruins, so their trail became less pronounced once more as they moved toward the White River.

Eventually the road forked: One path, continuing left toward the river, was paved; the other, going right, might have been paved once, but after a few paces the remaining stones vanished – swallowed once more by the soil, perhaps. This trail was a bit wild and overgrown, but Siri knew it would take them precisely where they wanted to go. This path snaked along the mountainside, eventually descending to meet the rarely-used rear gate of Riverwood: a way into the small town that few save locals were aware of.

A short way up the trail from Riverwood, the group halted, choosing to wait on a rocky crag overlooking the town. Their spot was sheltered from the road's view by some thickly-needled pine trees and the low, dense scrub that was ubiquitous in Skyrim. On the opposite side of the road, higher up on the mountain, the dancing light of a campfire was visible; Siri, Beirir, and Esbern would risk no such exposure, however, instead eating their trail rations cold and pulling on their traveling cloaks for warmth.

The cold air of the Skyrim night felt good on Esbern's weary face, and he closed his eyes to savor the sensation he had been so long denied. The stars twinkling above in the dark dome of the sky were a welcome change frm the grimy, damp ceiling that had for so many years been the first and last sight he saw every single day. As he spent more time in the fresh air, he even began to feel younger – the wet, rattling cough he'd had for Talos-knew-how-long had cleared up, and the vivacity of his younger years was returning to his limbs. No longer was he condemned to die in the Ratway, taking with him the last scraps of the Blades' accumulated dragonlore; so many eons of knowledge had already been lost, but now he had again the opportunity, at long last, to record all that he could. Perhaps one day he could even find a protégé to whom he could pass the torch – _but no_, he thought. _Better not get ahead of myself just yet._ There was still a great distance to travel to true sanctuary, and who knew how many perils stood in the way?

So lost in thought and the contemplation of Nirn's natural beauty was he that Esbern did not mark Siri's departure from the campsite. Indeed, it was not until Beirir shifted slightly upon his rocky perch – whence he kept a watchful eye on the road – that the old Nord realized she had gone. The moons were risen, and no hint of sunlight remained on the horizon; night had well and truly fallen, and soon the denizens of Riverwood would be asleep.

Minutes stretched away, and the two men sat in silence awaiting Siri's return. Now that the journey was almost over – at least for a while – anxiety and dread overwhelmed Esbern's euphoria. What if Delphine didn't recognize him? It had been years. What if there were Thalmor agents in Riverwood? As the minutes ticked by, Esbern wondered whether something had happened to the Dragonborn – to Tamriel's last hope.

Thus preoccupied, Esbern did not hear the soft sound of approaching footsteps. Beirir tensed slightly, resting a hand on his dagger, and a moment later the older Nord was startled out of his contemplation.

"All's quiet," murmured Siri. "Let's go."

* * *

><p>Quiet afternoon had faded gently into uneventful evening in Riverwood. The town had seen no travelers that day, and the only patrons at the Sleeping Giant Inn – locals all – had drifted back to their homes as the night wore on. Even Orgnar had gone to bed, leaving Delphine alone with her thoughts as she wiped down the tables that lined the room. Would tonight be the night the Dragonborn would return with Esbern?<p>

If she returned, of course. If the Thalmor hadn't gotten them both in Riften, or while they were traveling.

But what if the Thalmor had gotten them? It had been several days since the Dragonborn had departed; would she return soon? Maybe it would take longer to travel with Esbern in tow. Who knew what kind of shape the old man was in these days. Or had the Thalmor captured her? Maybe they would torture her…and what if she had given away Delphine's identity…?

She wrung her damp rag out over the hearth in the center of the inn and went back to cleaning the tables. Fear was filling her chest as she scrubbed, still waiting – though for what, she didn't know.

The silence of the inn was broken abruptly as its heavy wooden door swung open. Though Delphine had been minding the inn for many years, and had experienced all manner of odd late-night arrivals by every type of traveler imaginable, the sound startled her, and she dropped her rag as her hand moved instinctively to the dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. She felt vulnerable in her barkeeping clothes – why hadn't she worn some sort of armor under her dress?

Relief washed over her a moment later as the Dragonborn stumped through the door. At once the innkeeper hurried over.

"Dragonborn! Did you –"

Her question caught in her throat as a familiar figure shuffled across the threshold. Words failed her; all she could do was stare as though she were seeing a ghost.

"Delphine!" said Esbern, emotion leaking through his usually soft, steady voice. "I – it's good to see you. It's been a long time." The old Nord's haggard face creased into a smile, and tears welled in his tired eyes.

At last Delphine managed to speak. "It's good to see you too, Esbern," she said. "It's been too long, old friend. Too long." Silence fell again for a few moments before Delphine remembered herself. Clearing her throat, she spoke again. "Well then. You made it, safe and sound. Come – I have a place where we can talk."

Esbern followed Delphine into the secret room in the inn's basement, while Siri trailed behind, shutting doors as she went.

"Now then," said Delphine, her demeanor suddenly businesslike, "I assume you know about…" She made a vague gesture in Siri's direction as she spoke. Siri scowled, annoyed with Delphine's manner, but neither of the Blades noticed the Dragonborn's displeasure.

Esbern nodded. "Oh yes, Dragonborn! Yes indeed. This changes everything, of course. There's no time to lose – we must locate –" Esbern began rifling through his rucksack, pulling out a number of books and papers, which he set on the table before him. He ignored them, however, clearly seeking something else.

"Esbern, what –" Delphine began, but she stopped mid-inquiry as he straightened up triumphantly, an ancient-looking leather-bound tome in his hands.

"Here it is! Let me show you." He placed this book on the table, too; on the cover, Siri saw – embossed in peeling gold letters – its title: _Annals of the Dragonguard_. Esbern flipped the book open to what looked like a map of Skyrim, and as Siri bent down to examine it, he continued to speak, voice burgeoning with excitement.

"You see, right here," he said, pointing out a small island in the Karth River that was colored red – the rest of Skyrim was an uninspired beige – and bore a small label. "Sky Haven Temple," he continued, "constructed around one of the main Akaviri camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim."

Delphine's brow furrowed. "Esbern, what does this have to do with –"

"Shh!" chastised Esbern. "This is where they built Alduin's Wall, to set down in stone all their accumulated dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries," he added sadly. "A wise and foresighted policy, in the event. But despite the far-reaching fame of Alduin's Wall at the time – one of the wonders of the ancient world! – its location was lost."

"What are you saying, Esbern?" asked Delphine.

At this, the old man became frustrated. "Alduin's Wall!" he cried impatiently. "It was where the ancient Blades recorded all they knew of Alduin and his return – part history, part prophecy. Its location has been lost for centuries," he said eagerly, "but I've found it again!" Esbern stood beaming proudly at the others for a moment before adding, "Not lost, you see; merely forgotten. The Blades archives held so many secrets…I was only able to save a few scraps…"

Esbern's voice tapered off and he hung his head, leaning forward wearily on the table, overcome by the thought of all the knowledge he had been unable to save. Siri could feel the emotion in the old man's voice, and her heart broke for him. The man had endured horrible hardships while watching his friends and his life's work being destroyed, knowing he could do nothing to stop it, could do nothing at all but run for his life. She circled the table and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," said Esbern, his voice unsteady. "It's just been…I never thought…I had given up hope, you see. I was sure this information would die with me, either in the Ratway or – or in some Aldmeri torture chamber. I believed the gods had grown weary of us." He looked up at Siri and gave her a weary smile. "But you, Dragonborn – you have given us a chance."

Delphine had grown agitated at Esbern's words. "So, you think Alduin's Wall will tell us how to defeat the world-eater?" she interjected.

"Well, there's no guarantee," he replied, turning to face his compatriot, "but I think it may. It is our best hope, especially now that we have a Dragonborn to lead us once again."

As though reinvigorated by Esbern's words, Delphine began pacing the room. "So this place – Sky Haven Temple – what do you know about it, Esbern?"

The old Nord shrugged. "I know it houses Alduin's Wall, and that for many years back in the First Era, and possibly later, it housed a detachment of the Dragonguard. If I am correct, it is set into a mountain and will be unreachable for any, save those who have a Dragonborn in their company."

At these words, Delphine's eyes lit up and she stopped pacing, turning sharply back to Esbern.

"That means this place could be our base of operations," she said forcefully. "A place where the Thalmor would be powerless to attack us.

Esbern nodded. "It is a fortress in which we will be able to live without fear of the Thalmor," he confirmed.

Delphine was ecstatic. "Do you realize the implications of this?" she cried. "We can rebuild! This place – it may hold the key to solving all of Skyrim's problems! Dragons, the Dominion –" Delphine turned to Siri. "We can build a force to support the Dragonborn as she works to save Skyrim!"

Siri flinched at Delphine's words, but the Breton took no notice, instead continuing to speak and pacing the room again.

"And if there is one Dragonborn, who is to say another will not be revealed? Finally, the Blades will be restored to our former glory!"

Finally Delphine came down off her euphoric high and focused her attention on the Dragonborn. Siri, however, did not look as enthused as Delphine had expected; rather the Nord woman stood, arms folded across her chest, brow knit.

"Are you alright, Dragonborn?" asked Esbern.

Before Siri could answer, though, Delphine interrupted. "What's wrong?" she asked. "This is incredible news – this temple is the key to your mission, the fulfillment of your purpose! If we play our cards right, this could mean not only the end of the dragon menace, but peace for all of Skyrim! Isn't that a good thing? Isn't that what you're fighting for?"

Siri's jaw tightened at the Breton's words, but she remained silent for a moment before she spoke. When she did, her tone was measured and calm, though Esbern and Delphine missed the note of strain creeping into her voice.

Of course it's good. That's all I want. Peace in Skyrim, and no more dragons, and then I can go back to being a regular person with a regular, boring life."

"Well, the Blades will still need your help," Esbern said. "You're the Dragonborn – we will have much more work to do, even if you can solve the dragon problem and bring peace to Skyrim once again."

Siri exhaled slowly and dropped her gaze to the floor. All she wanted was to live a normal life, surrounded by friends and family – a life in which she didn't have to be the Dragonborn, in which she could just be Siri, who didn't have to worry about dragons or the fate of Tamriel. Siri, who didn't have to fight a bloody civil war to keep her homeland whole.

"Dragonborn?" Delphine's voice broke into Siri's musings, and the Nord woman looked up. "We're going to have to take a few days so Esbern can rest and rebuild his strength. Then we'll meet you out in that area he's referring to. It's near what's now known as Karthspire, in the Karth River Canyon."

With a sigh, Siri uncrossed her arms and nodded.

"Alright. I'll meet you there."

* * *

><p>A chill breeze ruffled the tree, but he was used to such perches, so the movement disturbed him little. He shifted his weight slightly and continued to wait, gaze fixed intently on the inn below.<p>

At length the door opened and his sister stepped into the predawn light. He watched as she scanned the empty street. Was she looking for him? She seemed upset. Those two Blades agents were getting on his nerves, but she wouldn't tell them to back off. And even so, they wouldn't listen.

He briefly considered going down to say goodbye, but decided against it. He hated goodbyes, especially with her.

He saw her turn and run toward Whiterun. Her home.

A few moments later, another breeze disturbed the tree, but Beirir was gone.


End file.
